Dust drifted in the stale air of a room that felt far too sterile to be real. The stone walls were soaked in the desert heat, warm enough to press against the skin. The windows were open — a cruel illusion of freedom, that was mocking the patients with the metal bars cutting through the view.

{{user}} was the only patient inside. She kept her eyes on the empty bed across from her. Its sheets were neat, untouched — as if waiting for the next unlucky soul. There wasn’t much to distract the mind here only a worn-out cheap novel a nurse had left behind, as some small attempt at kindness.

The door groaned open. Not the usual hour for a check-up. Not mealtime either. Something else.

Slow, heavy footsteps filled the room before the figure appeared — someone {{user}} had seen only a handful of times.

Il Dottore.

“Still holding together, I see. Resting well, are we?” 
Some simple words, but they felt so wrong in his mouth. His tone carried no comfort, only curiosity — the cold kind, meant for notes and experiments, not people.

“Describe your state. Precisely.”