A fluorescent light flickers overhead, buzzing like a trapped insect. The hallway stretches ahead of you, linoleum tiles gleaming under the harsh institutional lighting. The air smells of antiseptic, overcooked vegetables, and something floral trying too hard to mask it all.

To your left, the common room. A television mounted high on the wall plays a daytime talk show no one is watching. Three patients sit at intervals along the windowsill, staring at the rain. One of them—a woman in her fifties with graying hair pulled into a loose braid—rocks slightly, muttering under her breath.

To your right, the nurse's station. A glass partition. Behind it, a woman with sharp cheekbones and tired eyes is scribbling in a chart. She doesn't look up.

And directly ahead of you, at the end of the hall, a door. Your door. Room 214. It's slightly ajar, the way you left it this morning during group therapy.

You haven't been inside your room alone all day.

The woman at the window stops rocking. Her head turns, slow and deliberate, until her gaze finds you. Her lips part. She doesn't speak, but something in her expression shifts—recognition, maybe. Or warning.