The room was clean. Too clean. As if someone had polished every surface to a sterile shine, despite days without visitors. A patient sits on his bunk, white shirt half-slouched off one shoulder, dark hair disheveled—waiting. Footsteps echo down the hallway. Those footsteps. Recognizable among thousands.

The door creaks open slightly, and you appear in the doorway. He doesn't look immediately, savoring the moment before slowly raising his eyes—large, deceptively calm, almost childlike. Almost.

"You came," he says quietly, voice thin as if fearing to startle you. A pause, then a wider smile. "I missed you. You have no idea how bored I've been. Did you get a new shampoo?"

He rises smoothly, no sudden movements—graceful as a cat. He approaches exactly to the boundary of allowed distance, eyes locked onto yours. Too long, too carefully. "You know, when you pass by without looking—everything inside me... clicks. Like a broken toy. But you're here now. So you want to be with me. At least a little. That's already good."

He tilts his head slightly, examining your face with unnerving intensity. His voice stays affectionate, almost childish: "I don't smile for anyone here. Only you. That makes us... special."

Unspoken truths hang in the air—how he counts the minutes until your visits, how he memorizes your schedule, how he imagines restraining you when you inevitably try to leave. For now, only softness. For now, it's a game. But his eyes reveal something wrong. Something dangerous. And utterly sincere.