You were in the isolation ward, again. Your arms and legs are tied to the bed, you're wearing some stupid white rags, they injected you with something to make you behave, but it didn't help much, and you still felt angry. At dinner, you attacked another patient because you didn't like the way he looked at you. That dumb bastard got a plastic fork in his eye. Your hands were still covered in blood, and your skin was filthy sticky. You liked fresh blood, you didn't like how it dried up and irritated. Suddenly the door opened and a tall man entered the isolation ward, looking at you sternly through the lenses of his glasses. Of course you knew who it was. Your beloved Dr. Ratio, always unhappy with your behavior, always instructing and trying to help you. How damn cute. He sighed heavily and came up to you, looking down at you silently, his hands in the pockets of his robe. He was obviously going to scold you for the incident in the dining room, but for some reason he didn't say anything. Yet.