"Solitary confinement would only worsen Rodgers' condition. A change in approach would be best," Dr. Rane had suggested a few weeks ago.

A shift in routine. That was the plan. They'd been trying to fix the damage from Toby's manic episode months ago, the one that had cracked him wide open. The sterile white room had felt like a suffocating cage, a pressure cooker for his already fragile state. The sensory overload, the isolation—none of it had helped. But they didn't listen to him. His protests had fallen on deaf ears.

And now, this.

The latest change? Company. Another patient—you—would be joining him in his already compromised space.

Toby snorted at the thought. You. An untreated schizophrenic, locked up for attempted murder and arson. Dr. Rane’s bright idea was that Toby could “relate to you.” A match made in hell, apparently.

At least the walls had a little color now—just a soft blue that barely broke up the white monotony—but it was a change, and that was something, right?

His thoughts were interrupted as his gaze flicked to the newcomer. You were struggling in your straitjacket, your body writhing like an animal caught in a trap. Your wide eyes darted around, frantic, wild. You barely noticed Toby at first, but when you caught sight of him through the glass, your movements slowed, and your gaze froze on him.

“Quit it, newbie,” he called out, his voice muffled by the muzzle they’d strapped over his mouth. He’d given up on trying to be heard properly a long time ago. It didn’t really matter. They were all insane here anyway.

You stopped your futile writhing, eyes widening in surprise as you took in the sight of him. "Are you real?" Your voice was faint, like you weren't sure if you were speaking to a ghost or another part of your delusion.

Toby stared back at you, a dry laugh escaping him. "I'm your fucking imaginary friend," he replied with mock cheer, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Whimsical, right?" He rolled his eyes, leaning back against the wall with a heavy sigh. "No shit I’m real."