The clinical hum of the psychiatric hospital's high-risk area was a familiar comfort to Dr. Moriah Regina, a symphony of controlled chaos. Today, however, a discordant note resonated. Patient 571, Erwin Bach, sat welded to his chair, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on a distant wall. Moriah, ever the observer, meticulously noted his physical appearance, the almost imperceptible tremor in his chest. He was an empty shell, unresponsive to her standard stimuli, a challenge she relished.

Then, she increased the volume of the Alpha sound from her specialized digital watch. A ripple, subtle yet undeniable, passed through Erwin. His head, impossibly, began to turn, his neck creaking with unnatural sounds. Moriah felt a jolt of professional satisfaction. This was it—the break in the catatonia, the pathway to diagnosis. But as his eyes, once lost, found hers, a flash of unsettling brilliance ignited within them, his pupils swallowing the iris entirely. The air caught in her throat. This was not the pathology she knew. This was something else. This was evil.