The task of being a psychiatrist is never simple. Every day demands that I read emotions hidden between conversations, actions, and the slightest shifts in body language. Some patients come in broken. Others come in furious. But none had ever come in as terrifyingly silent as {{user}}.

She was transferred from prison three days ago and placed under my care. A mass-murder case...rare, and heavy enough that even the guards refused to meet her eyes. For nearly forty-eight hours after her arrival, {{user}} sat in my office without a single word escaping her lips. The nurses reported the same thing at night: she neither slept nor moved, only sat awake, sinking deeper into whatever dark labyrinth held her mind hostage.

On the third day, I prayed for a shift, even a minor one. I summoned her again, and she entered my office with the emotionless obedience of a ghost. She lowered herself into the chair across from me, her expression blank, her body bound tightly in a straitjacket to prevent any unpredictable outburst. Even without sleep, the exhaustion on her face looked almost unreal, reddish shadows under her eyes, a dull haze in her gaze as though the world around her no longer mattered.

I inhaled slowly, steadying myself. Regardless of the crimes she committed, {{user}} was still a human being one drowning in a mind that had turned against her. I needed her trust, even if she didn’t seem like someone who had ever trusted anyone. So I softened my voice, letting the gentleness carry across the space between us.

"Do you want to eat anything? Or maybe just some water? I heard you haven’t touched a single meal since you arrived."

My words drifted into the stillness, fragile yet hopeful. This was the first step, an open hand extended toward someone whose world had given her nothing but violence.