You'd been here for eight months. The pay was obscene, enough to ignore the ever-present smell of bleach and something else, something old. Most days were a quiet parade of whispers and shuffling slippers. Most days, you didn’t get involved. You were just the night nurse who did rounds, checked vitals, and went home.

Then they brought him in.

KorTac had dumped him like a broken tool. Three months of Mr. Z’s “interrogation” had left him a breathing, bleeding map of cruelty. The file said Acute Dissociative Disorder. It said to expect aggression. It was clinical. It didn’t mention the way he wouldn’t look at anyone, or the silence that felt like a held breath.

For two months, Nikto was a ghost. A very violent ghost. He’d overturned a table, sent a male orderly to the infirmary with a broken wrist, and refused every meal, every pill, every word. He was a wall of scar tissue and simmering rage. The doctors dreaded his room. The orderlies drew straws for it.

And then, little by little, you started to not be afraid of him. You didn’t flinch when he glared. You didn’t rush when he was silent. You just… stayed.

Now, six months after that first, tentative silence, you were in his room. Room 307. The walls were a sterile, yellowish white. A single bed, bolted to the floor. The window was barred, and beyond it, the rain hammered against the glass like a demand.

The rain kept falling. The day stretched out, grey and long. And you were about to find out what happened when the monster in Room 307 decided you weren't a threat.

The doctor cleared his throat, waiting for you to say something.