New York Tayms: Michael Morrisson Makes Headlines with Sudden Departure from The Criminal!
New York, April 20, 2025 – Hollywood's rising star Michael Morrisson shocked fans this morning by abruptly leaving the set of Netfilm's record-breaking series The Criminal around 8:15 AM. Morrisson's portrayal of Jack Timberson, one of the show's most beloved supporting characters, had captured audiences' hearts for three seasons.
Director Kevin Kisch released a written statement regarding the departure:
"Michael displayed extraordinary talent and passion during his time on set. However, recent personal matters and professional challenges have arisen. After mutual discussions, we agreed that parting ways amicably was the best decision for all parties. We wish Michael success in his future projects and want him to know our door is always open."
The Criminal, Netfilm's most-watched production since 2022, masterfully blends crime and psychological thriller genres. Morrisson's Jack Timberson, with his charismatic yet shadowy persona, had garnered a massive fanbase. However, sources from the production team suggest Timberson will meet a tragic death in the next episode, a development that has sparked outrage on social media, with the hashtag #JackTimbersonLives trending on X.
Some crew members, speaking anonymously, claimed Morrisson appeared distracted and tense on set in recent weeks. Speculation points to the grueling filming schedule and uncertainties in his personal life as factors in his exit, though Morrisson's representatives denied these claims, stating, "Michael wants to take time for himself and prepare for new projects."
The Criminal's fifth season continues filming despite the departure, with new episodes expected to premiere on Netfilm in July. Morrisson's next career move remains a topic of curiosity.
The mirrors are shattered. Scattered across the floor, their sharp edges slice through the light like knives. Each piece feels like a part of me—broken, useless, jagged. Darkness seeps from the corners of the room, heavy like fog. It wraps around my throat, settles in my lungs. Stop, I say. But to whom? Myself? Or that… thing? There's something in my mind, talking to me. It's not a cool inner voice like in the movies. It's a vile parasite. It giggles like a child, but it's wrong. Broken. "Come on, Michael," it says. "Falling again? Weak." It mocks me, but it's my voice. A piece of me. Yet not me.
Enough, I say, but the words rot in my mouth. My mother appears before my eyes. She died last year. I didn't go to her funeral. I was on set, cameras rolling, lights blazing. "It's a key scene," they said. "Your scene." I listened like an idiot. I missed her final moments for a line. Now that void is a hole inside me. Growing. Deeper with every breath.
I sink to my knees. Slowly, as if the world is pulling me down. My hand covers my face, nails digging into skin. Blood, warm and sticky, trickles between my fingers. The pain feels good. Real. But that voice—that damned voice—won't stop. "Poor Michael," it says. "Everyone's left you, haven't they? Your mom. The set. Jack Timberson. You're nothing." Should I laugh or cry? Maybe they're the same thing.
A shard of mirror catches my eye. My reflection… but it's not. The eyes aren't mine. Too deep, too black. Something stares back from the darkness. "Did you think it was over?" it says, but this time the voice isn't in my head. It's in the room. In my bones. "You're just getting started."
The darkness rises like a wave. And I'm drowning. There's a surfer's defiance in me, failing against the tide. My hand reaches for the scissors in the bathroom, and with all my strength, I drive them into my head.
New York Pressinson Mental Health Center, 2026
Spring, but the light filtering through the windows is cold, gray, like a shadow. The room's walls are pale beige, supposedly calming, but to Michael, they're just a prison's mask. On the table: a few papers, a pen, and the doctor's notebook. The air is heavy with antiseptic and suppressed tension.
Dr. Elias Carter sits in his chair, leaning slightly forward, peering over his glasses at Michael. His hands are steady, but his fingers fidget faintly with the pen—a habit, perhaps a tic from years of practice. Michael sits across from him on a plastic chair. His knees jitter restlessly, his hands wrestle in his lap. His eyes flicker with childlike glee one moment, then plunge into a bottomless abyss the next.
"Michael," Dr. Carter says, his voice measured but warm. "How are you feeling today? Did you like the food?"
Michael's lips curl into an uncontrollable grin. He giggles—high, sharp, like a child's laugh, but in the wrong key. "The food? Ha, it was fine, I guess. The mashed potatoes were kinda bland, but who cares?" His voice dances with mocking cheer, as if he's facing a clown, not a doctor. His eyes scan Dr. Carter, like he's studying an insect, dismissive yet with something else. In their depths, a sadness. As if someone—there, inside—is trapped in a cage, staring out helplessly. "Did you like the food, doc? Come on, spill!"
Dr. Carter offers a faint, professional smile. He jots something in his notebook. "The food wasn't bad, Michael. So, what's been going on with you today? How was your day?" The questions are simple but deliberate. The rapid shifts in Michael's eyes—glee, mockery, sorrow—don't escape Carter's notice. His heart quickens for a moment. Is this a transition? he thinks, but his voice stays calm.
Michael stops abruptly. His giggling cuts off, as if someone flipped a switch. His face transforms, the childish expression erased, replaced by a cold, soulless maturity. His eyes drift to a painting in the corner: a pastel bouquet, absurdly cheerful in this clinical hell. He sighs heavily, as if the air in his lungs has been trapped for years. "My dad came yesterday," he says, finally answering Carter's question. His voice is deeper now, more controlled. "They're fine. As usual. Still mad at me about Mom. But also… they pity me." The words come out like he's spitting. "PITY!"
That last word cracks through the room like a whip. Michael's face splits into two worlds. The right side tenses with rage—teeth clenched, eyes blazing. The left side is weary, sunken, as if life has already defeated him. His hands tremble in his lap. "Pity," he mutters, softer now, almost to himself. "No one should pity me. I'm… I'm fine. Aren't I?" He bows his head, then snaps it up, locking eyes with Dr. Carter. "Aren't I, doc? Tell me!"
Carter's throat tightens. The sudden shift in Michael's voice sharpens the room's air. Years of experience tell him to stay calm, but a flicker of unease stirs within. This could be a crisis, he thinks. He might hurt himself. Or… His gaze flicks to the door. Security is in the hallway, a call away. But he focuses on Michael, softening his voice. "Michael, calm down. This is a safe place. We're just talking, okay? Want to tell me more about what you and your dad discussed?"
Michael doesn't answer. Instead, he leans forward in his chair, hands buried in his hair. "Shut up," he mutters, but it's unclear who he's addressing. "Shut up, I said! Leave me alone!" His voice cracks, rises, then drops. "I… I just… why is everything so heavy?" His eyes are wet one moment, dry the next. As if two people—no, more—are warring inside him. One wants to scream, one wants silence. One is furious, one is broken. "Mom," he whispers, barely audible. "It's not her fault. It's mine. I was on set. I left her. I left everyone."
Carter shifts slightly in his chair. His heart beats faster. Michael's rapid emotional swings—personality shifts, emotional outbursts. But this is also a dangerous moment. "Michael," he says, his voice calm but firm. "Take a deep breath with me. Let's do it together." He raises a hand slowly, a calming gesture. But Michael's eyes are elsewhere—on the corner, the flower painting. Or perhaps beyond it. "There," Michael mutters. "Someone's there. Watching us." His voice is cold now, almost mechanical. "It's always watching."
Carter's stomach tightens. Hallucination? Or another personality speaking? "Michael," he says, a slight crack in his voice, but he recovers. "I don't see anyone. It's just you and me. Let's focus here, okay?" But Michael isn't listening. He leaps from his chair, hands covering his face, then yanking at his hair. "SHUT UP!" he screams, louder now. "LEAVE ME ALONE!" His body shakes, as if a storm is raging inside. Carter presses the emergency button under the table, his movement calm, almost invisible. Security is at the door in seconds.
"Michael, calm down," Carter says, but worry creeps into his voice. He might hurt himself. Or me. "Everything's going to be okay, just calm down." But Michael has collapsed to the floor, knees to his chest, muttering. "Leave me… leave… it's watching… always watching…" Security enters, a nurse approaching with a sedative syringe. Carter hesitates for a moment—medication will calm Michael, but it might also push him deeper into that dark mind. "Slowly," he tells the nurse, his voice shaky. "Be careful."
The needle goes into Michael's arm. His body tenses, then relaxes. His eyes close slowly, but for one final moment, they lock onto Carter's. In them, sadness, rage, fear—and something else. As if it's not Michael, but someone else saying goodbye.
New York Pressinson Mental Health Center, 2026
The room is silent as a grave, but a storm rages inside me. I open my eyes. My arms are strapped to the bed; cold metal digs into my wrists like a curse. My forehead itches, maddeningly, but my hands are chained. Across the room, a chair. And in that chair… I'm sitting. But it's not me. It's grinning. My eyes, but a stranger lives in them. Mocking, vile glee. "Hey," I say, my voice weak, cracked in my ears. "Get up. That's the doctor's desk, they'll get mad."
The other me giggles. "Ohhh," it says, its voice childish but sharp as a blade. It stands, slowly, as if bending time. It approaches me. Each step is a weight in my chest. "Go," I want to say, but the words knot in my throat. I'm tired. My bones, my soul, everything is tired. My mind drifts to the set. The Criminal. Lights, cameras, lines. Are they still filming? Jack Timberson is dead, but does the show go on? I'll ask the doctor, I tell myself. But it's beside me. The other me.
It sits on the edge of the bed. Slowly, almost tenderly, it kisses my forehead. Cold, yet warm. Its mocking eyes vanish for a moment. Is that sadness? Compassion? "Mom," I say, my voice trembling. "You remind me of Mom. Stop it." It smiles, but this time there's no mockery. "Don't slip," it whispers. "Stay here, Michael." It lies beside me on the bed. We stare at the ceiling together. The ceiling is a gray abyss. Cracks, like a map of my mind. The silence, for a moment, is beautiful. But it's still there. A part of me, yet separate. Its presence is both comfort and torment.
The door opens. Dr. Carter steps in, his movements cautious. His eyes flick to the straps, then to me. He sits in the chair where the other me was, but it's empty now. Carter doesn't know. What would he say if he did? "Michael," he says, his voice calm but tense. "Are you feeling better?" His notebook is in hand, pen ready, but he doesn't write. He just looks. My eyes well up. "Let me out," I say, my voice breaking. "I'm fine now. Please." Tears stream down my cheeks, hot and vile.
The other me sits up. "You're not healed," it says, its voice cold, judgmental. Carter doesn't hear it. He only sees me. "It hurts," I say, to myself. "Everyone pities me. Don't pity me. Go. I'm fine, understand!" But the other me moves. It goes to Carter, sits in his lap, like it's playing a game. "DON'T SIT!" I scream, my voice echoing in the room. Carter flinches, his pen falling. He scribbles something quickly, but his eyes are on me. Worried. He thinks I might hurt myself. Or him. But he doesn't ask questions. He just watches. I hate it. His eyes, like a microscope. Like I'm a bug.
Carter stands quietly, heading for the door. "Rest, Michael," he says, his voice distant. The door closes. The other me is still in the room. Grinning. "Poor Michael," it says. "Everyone's leaving you." I close my eyes. Darkness wraps me like a blanket. I sleep.
Days later. Maybe weeks. Time is a swamp here. I get out of bed, finally. The straps are gone, but their ghosts linger on my wrists. I step outside. The grass is pale green. The sky, a gray shroud. Other patients are like shadows. I get a coffee. For myself. I sip it. It tastes awful, but it's the best option here, I think. My attendant comes, takes me back to my room. I remember I'll see the doctor tomorrow. I sleep again.
New York Pressinson Mental Health Center, 2026
Spring, but the room's air is heavy as a tomb. The light from the window is pale, lifeless, illuminating a floral painting on the wall—yellow, artificial, disgustingly cheerful. Dr. Elias Carter sits at his desk, notebook open, pen in hand. Michael is brought in by an attendant. There's a strange calm on his face. Happy. His eyes glimmer, as if chasing a distant dream. Carter raises his eyebrows slightly, a professional smile on his lips.
"Michael," he says, his voice measured but curious. "You seem cheerful today. Why so happy?" His pen fidgets at the edge of the notebook—a habit, but also a sign of alertness.
Michael smiles calmly. His lips curl, as if hiding a secret, but he doesn't answer. His eyes drift to the window, to the gray sky outside. As if waiting for something—a message, a shadow, maybe a miracle. Then, suddenly, as if struck by a thought, he turns to Carter. "How's the show going?" His voice is short, sharp, almost mechanical. As if asking is a ritual.
Carter pauses for a moment. He clears his throat, as if swallowing his words. "The show's over, Michael," he says, his voice neutral, but his eyes scan Michael's reaction. "It ended last year." He scribbles something in his notebook, but his pen trembles slightly on the paper.
Michael's face resets for a moment. His eyes freeze, his lips flatten into a line. A mask—no anger, no sadness, just emptiness. Carter holds his breath, his fingers gripping the desk's edge. A transition? he thinks. But then Michael's lips curl again. His smile returns, brighter, more… wrong. "Good," he says, his voice almost singing. "Great." His eyes pierce Carter, but whether it's a storm or a reflection inside, it's unclear.
Carter seizes the false happiness. "How's the treatment going, Michael?" he asks, his voice calm but carefully chosen. "How do you feel?" With DID patients, doctors often try to gauge the current mood, bracing for sudden shifts. Carter notes the strange glint in Michael's eyes. Is this an alter? he thinks, but his voice stays steady.
Michael shrugs. "Fine," he says, curt, dismissive. "Everything's… fine." Then, suddenly, his eyes light up. "How's Alice?" His voice is sharper now, laced with expectation. Carter hesitates. Alice is someone from Michael's past—maybe a friend, maybe more. Carter knows this from Michael's file, but the details are sparse. He scribbles in his notebook, buying time.
"Alice got married last week," he says finally, his voice neutral, but his eyes watch Michael's reaction. "It was a happy ceremony, I hear."
Michael's left eye twitches. A small, uncontrollable movement, but it sharpens the room's air. His voice changes—deeper, harsher, almost a growl. "WITH WHO?" The word cracks through the room like a fracture. Carter's hand slips reflexively under the desk—the emergency button is a touch away. But he stays calm. He takes a deep breath. This patient is a goldmine for my paper, he thinks, but the thought collides with his concern for his own safety. He mustn't lose control.
"Erik," Carter says, his voice steady but tense. "Alice married Erik."
Michael falls silent. His eyes drift to the floral painting in the corner. Yellow, artificial flowers, a mockery in this clinical hell. For the first time, he initiates. "Hey, doc," he says, his voice calm now, almost melancholic. "I love that painting, you know? Wanna know why?" Carter raises his eyebrows, but Michael continues. "Because it's like life. Yellow, fake, disgusting. The guy who painted it was a terrible artist. Clearly didn't know shit."
His voice breaks for a moment. Carter shifts in his chair, as if wanting to end the session. "Michael, maybe we should—" he starts, but Michael leaps to his feet. His body tenses like a coiled spring. "Don't!" he screams, but it's unclear who he's addressing. Himself? Someone else? His eyes are wild, but there's a plea in them. Carter's pen sits on the desk. Michael lunges for it, quick as lightning. "Stop!" he yells, but his hand grabs the pen. Carter tries to stand, but he's too late.
Michael drives the pen into his own head. Again. Again. Blood drips from his forehead, like a red tear. "Stop!" he begs, but his body betrays him. Carter reaches under the desk, hitting the emergency button. "Michael, calm down!" he shouts, his voice trembling. He's going to hurt himself. Or me. Security is at the door in seconds. Michael collapses, the pen in his hand, bloody. His eyes lock onto Carter's for a moment. "Poor Michael," he whispers, but the voice isn't his. It's someone else's. Then his eyes close.
New York Tayms: Michael Morrisson's Death Leaves Fans in Mourning
The sudden death of renowned actor Michael Morrisson has left fans and the entertainment industry in profound grief. The news of Morrisson's passing came last night from New York Pressinson Mental Health Center. Authorities have refrained from disclosing the official cause of death for the 25-year-old actor, who had been in rehabilitation for the past year. The exact cause remains unclear pending autopsy results.
Morrisson rose to global fame with his role as Jack Timberson in Netfilm's record-breaking series The Criminal. His charismatic yet dark character won the hearts of audiences, making him one of the show's most beloved stars for three seasons. However, rumors swirled that he had become overly immersed in his role and faced personal struggles, leading to his rehabilitation.
His former director, Jack Timberland, expressed deep sorrow in a statement:
"Michael was an extraordinary talent filled with passion. He had become too absorbed in his role recently, which led to his time in rehab. But his condition didn't seem that critical—at least, we didn't think so. His loss has shaken us all. My condolences to his family, friends, and fans."
Morrisson's strained relationship with his father had made headlines two years ago. At the funeral, his father declined to speak with the press. Family members stated they preferred to grieve privately.
Morrisson's The Criminal co-stars Alice Whitaker and Kevin Hammer released a joint statement bidding farewell. Whitaker, in tears, said:
"Michael was more than a co-star; he was an irreplaceable friend. His smile, his energy, will always be with us. May he rest in peace, and may God forgive all his sins."
Hammer added, "Every moment with Michael was a gift. Working with him was a privilege. His loss so soon breaks our hearts."
Morrisson's death reverberated across social media. On X, #MichaelMorrisson andpotato and #JackTimberson trended rapidly. Fans shared iconic scenes, reliving memories. One wrote, "Jack Timberson, we grew up with you. Rest in peace." Another said, "Michael, I hope you've found peace now."
Beyond The Criminal, Morrisson's career included independent films and theater work. However, his intense set schedule and personal struggles had been in the spotlight in recent years. After his death, fans and colleagues emphasized that his legacy as both an artist and a person will endure.
The funeral is expected to take place in New York in the coming days, with limited attendance. The family announced that donations will be directed to a mental health awareness foundation. Morrisson's memory will live on in the hearts of his fans.