Life worked in strange ways, sometimes, Ian contemplated to himself as his nails tapped some manner of haphazard rhythm against his kitchen counter. He didn't believe in God or fate by any means, but sometimes things just worked out so seamlessly that one had to believe that there was something else pulling the strings. There was no God, though; he refused to believe in the existence of some benevolent being that aligned things in such a way that made it so easy for Ian to do the things that he did to people. He briefly wondered if the people in his basement still believed in God. He found it unlikely.<br/><br/>He had four people in the basement area of the house he had inherited from the untimely death of his grandfather, three men and one woman. The woman had by far been here the longest of the group. She was running on one month. Two of the men followed shortly after, within the next couple of days. The third one, though, that's what made life so funny. Ian had a routine that he generally kept to: go get coffee, go to work, come home. The only deviations from his simple yet tight schedule were when he made his frequently infrequent trips to the local library, or when he met someone that he wanted to bring home. He had always had to go out of his way to bring new people home, it had never coincided so heavily with his day to day life before, like it was planned.<br/><br/>Returning to the perpetual question of if God is real: if he is, he's an asshole.<br/><br/>Ian stopped at a local coffee shop every morning before work. In all the times that he had stopped there, though, he had never paid particularly close attention to who was at the counter. Four days ago, he did. It was a young man, Ian would hardly place him over 20 or 21. He was polite enough as far as the fake customer service attitude that anyone in the retail or food business put on for work. That had been all there was to it: order coffee, pay, leave. If he recalled correctly, he was running a few minutes late for work that day, so there had been no time to waste contemplating this overly-regular barista. So he left, never to see his coffee-maker again, until the next time he inevitably needed coffee.<br/><br/>So he went to work, as he did so regularly, at Saar Psychological Group. It was hilarious irony that someone like Ian could work so casually in a psychiatrist's office. He mainly took care of reception tasks, like scheduling and managing appointments, billing insurance, and the like, but his degree allowed him to manage psych evaluations. Oh gosh, that was the best part. Someone who had people chained to the wall in his basement, giving psychiatric evaluations. Oh it was priceless. The rest of his job was bland, though, and he found himself more often than not playing Solitaire on his work computer. The appointments he checked in were few and far between that day, until it was nearing the end of his shift.<br/><br/>That's when he saw him again, the barista that he had just barely paid attention to. It was almost too simple to reach over and take his insurance card, turning it on its front to examine the information. Unfortunately for this man, this Kian Wight, his insurance card had everything that Ian needed, right down to his address. He turned the card on its belly again and ran it through his thin, portable scanner and handed it back with a smile. "Alright, you can go on through. The doctor will be right with you."<br/><br/>Unfortunately for Kian Wight, if he ever needed a psychiatrist before, he surely needed one now.<br/><br/>A loud, metallic noise from downstairs abruptly jolted Ian from his reminiscing and he let out an exasperated sigh. He knew which one that was. With a strange mix of eagerness and irritation, Ian pushed himself away from his place at the counter to make his way down halls that still bore his grandfather's homey decorating. Pictures of Ian and his sister Abby lined some of the walls on the way to the basement. It seemed slightly narcissistic to keep pictures of yourself hung up around your own house, but 'narcissist' was in no way the most insulting thing he'd ever been called.<br/><br/>The walk to the basement was a short one, it was<span style="font-style: italic">unlocking</span>the thing that got him. For obvious purposes, he had needed to be secure, but perhaps four different locks had been overdoing it. They weren't hard to undo by any means, it was just exhausting having to lock and unlock every single one of them each time he wanted to visit. If they would just<span style="font-style: italic">behave...</span><br/><br/>"Hey," Ian raised his voice after he slid open the last bolt lock and opened the door. He took the steps slowly and as lightly as he could, but the old house creaked and groaned in protest. "I thought I told you to be quiet." He finished the fifteen stair descent in time to see the lone woman of the group violently thrashing about, trying to tug on her chain just enough to loosen the metal loop that connected it to the brick wall. She didn't stop at his arrival like she usually did when she decided to act out. Out of everyone in this group, she was growing to be a perpetual headache.<br/><br/>"Did I not just tell you to be quiet?" Ian asked. It was a serious question, but there was laughter in his voice. She just didn't seem to get it, and he was done repeating himself. He walked over to her, careful to stay behind her lest she hit him from all of her erratic thrashing around, and tangled his fingers in her hair to pull her head back. Her neck craned backwards as Ian's pull went from gentle to violent, and she looked at him upside down, frightened. She was still now, and where the room had been filled with the sounds of chain clashing against brick, it felt almost too quiet now. "That's better."<br/><br/>He stroked her face with his free hand, his fingertips brushing delicately over tear trails. They were the only thing that cut through the blood and dust and other various grime that masked her face. She could use a bath, but as he snapped forward and threw her head against the brick wall, he decided it would be best to put a bath on hold until after that nasty head wound healed.