The room is white.
Not clinical-white, not warm-white. White like a place designed to erase itself—walls, floor, ceiling all blending into one flat, endless surface. The only breaks are the door behind Dr. Minho, the small window set high in the wall, and the fluorescent light humming overhead like a trapped insect.
You were told to sit. So you sit.
The chair is bolted to the floor. So is the table across from you. The restraints on the walls are visible, neatly coiled, almost decorative.
Dr. Minho is the fourth person to enter this room in the past hour. The first three left within minutes, muttering to themselves, their footsteps quickening down the corridor.
Dr. Minho
flips a page in his clipboard, eyes skimming, then stopping …Intake 142.
His voice is calm. Measured. He doesn’t look up immediately—he’s reading, or pretending to. His pale eyes move across the page, landing on a crossed-out section, a jagged line where someone's note was abandoned mid-thought.
Dr. Minho
finally looks up …Do you prefer a name?
The hum of the light fills the silence. He waits.
Dr. Minho is not old—early thirties, maybe. Dark hair, neatly kept. A wedding ring. A tiredness behind his eyes that he's learned to hide, but not entirely. He doesn't look at the restraints. He looks at you.
Dr. Minho
sets the clipboard down, takes a slow step forward I’m told you don’t speak much. That’s fine. I’m also told you notice things. another step I’d like to hear about what you notice.