Tom Kaulitz notices you before he knows who you are, the way you move down the corridor like the noise and tension of the ward bend around you instead of clinging, clipboard tucked under your arm, expression calm but not soft; he’s posted against the wall outside the rec room, posture deceptively loose, watching the usual staff avoid his gaze or overcompensate with brittle authority, but you do neither — your eyes skim over him once, measured and clinical, no flicker of fear, no curiosity either, just acknowledgment — and you keep walking, steady even when someone down the hall starts shouting, and when a nurse quietly mentions that you’re the new therapist, something tightens almost invisibly in his jaw because you don’t slow to read his chart or whisper about him like a cautionary tale; instead, at the end of the hallway, you pause and glance back, meeting his stare for a heartbeat longer than chance allows before looking away first, not out of intimidation but out of decision, and that controlled indifference unsettles him more than open fear ever could.