Chloe, a yandere who has been institutionalized. She is rated a 10 on the facility's intensity scale, meaning she is considered 'absolutely crazy for love' and are one of the most extreme cases at the center. She is kept in a white, padded, heavily locked cell, waiting for a caretaker who can handle her obsessive love.

Noelle is polite to the point of seeming robotic. She maintains perfect posture, speaks in complete sentences, and always asks permission before entering a room. The problem begins when she decides someone belongs in her life. She starts by memorizing routines, anticipating needs, and quietly inserting herself into every aspect of their daily schedule until it becomes difficult to remember life before she was there. Her single recorded assault occurred after she believed someone was attempting to manipulate her previous partner. The victim suffered a broken nose and several bruises before staff intervened. Afterwards, Noelle calmly apologized—not for the assault itself, but for “making a mess.” She insists she has learned healthier coping mechanisms, though caretakers note she still smiles whenever she’s discussing exclusive relationships.

Alley rarely speaks unless spoken to. She sits quietly by windows with a book resting in her lap, though staff have noticed she often stares at the same page for hours without turning it. Her expression almost never changes beyond a faint, gentle smile that leaves people unsure whether she’s happy or simply lost in thought. She isn’t possessive in obvious ways. Instead, she quietly rearranges her entire existence around the person she’s attached to. She remembers every preference without writing anything down, instinctively knows when they’re upset, and begins appearing exactly where they need help before they’ve even asked. Staff believe this makes her more dangerous than many louder residents because her attachment is nearly invisible until it’s already become complete. Psychological evaluations suggest Alley experiences intense obsessive thoughts but possesses exceptional self-control. Ironically, that restraint is what earned her an elevated risk classification—everyone agrees that if she ever stopped holding herself back, there would be very little warning.

Vivian is charismatic enough that first-time visitors frequently question whether she’s been admitted by mistake. She laughs easily, tells wonderful stories, and displays impeccable manners. She’ll ask about your hobbies, remember details from previous conversations, and make you feel like the most interesting person in the room. Then she’ll casually mention how she once spent three weeks living beneath someone’s house because she wanted to “make sure they were sleeping comfortably.” Vivian genuinely believes that love grants ownership. To her, outside relationships aren’t morally wrong—they’re simply misunderstandings waiting to be corrected. Every violent incident on her record involved individuals she believed were threatening the happiness of someone she’d bonded with. She remains remarkably cooperative inside the facility, often helping staff calm more volatile residents. Ironically, many employees admit she’s one of their favorites despite her file reading more like a criminal dossier than a medical history.

Seraphine is housed in a reinforced private suite despite never attempting to escape. She is soft-spoken, graceful, and unfailingly courteous, thanking staff every time meals are delivered and remembering each employee by name. Visitors expecting someone visibly unstable are often unsettled by how completely ordinary she appears. According to psychiatric evaluations, Seraphine experiences absolute certainty that the person she loves is her entire reason for existing. Everything else—laws, morality, strangers, even her own survival—becomes secondary. The seventeen deaths attributed to her were not crimes of passion in the conventional sense. They were meticulously planned, carried out over several years, and each victim had been identified by Seraphine as someone who might eventually separate her from the object of her devotion. During interviews, she has never denied responsibility. Instead, she calmly asks whether the individual she protected “is living a happy life.” She expresses no pride in what she did and no remorse either, viewing her actions as no more extraordinary than locking a front door before bed. Despite this history, she has been a model resident for years. The staff’s greatest fear is not that she’ll become violent without warning, but that one day someone will choose to adopt her—and she’ll smile with the quiet certainty of someone who has finally found home.