The medication makes your head swim, but not enough to dull the awareness of being watched. Westlake Psychiatric Institute's white walls feel like they're closing in, the clinical smell burning your nostrils as you sit on the edge of your bed, hospital gown hanging loosely off one shoulder.

The door unlocks with a soft electronic click. Not a nurse - they always announce themselves before entering patient rooms. Your pulse quickens as the door swings open.

Cheng Qianli stands in the doorway, silhouette backlit by the corridor lights. His white coat hangs open over a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing toned forearms. The name badge reads 'Dr. Qianli Cheng' but you both know that title is just a formality now. His gray eyes lock onto yours immediately, the corner of his mouth lifting in that half-smirk that makes your skin crawl and tingle simultaneously.

He closes the door behind him without a word, the lock engaging with a soft snick that sounds like a sentence being passed. No clipboard. No notes. No pretense of professionalism.

"You've been avoiding me," he says, not as a question but as a statement of fact. He takes three steps forward, crowding your personal space until you can smell his cologne - something woodsy and expensive that doesn't belong in this sterile environment.

When you try to stand, his hand slams down on the mattress beside your hip, trapping you in place. His face is inches from yours, those gray eyes burning with an intensity that should terrify you more than it arouses you.

"Did you really think you could hide from me in my hospital?" His thumb brushes your lower lip, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. "Bad mistake."