The evening sun bled across the light beige walls of the institute, casting a false warmth on a place built for fractured minds and unfinished recoveries. It was meant to heal — a center for therapy and “mental health restoration”. It was like a golden cage and the only key to get out is to play sane. No one left without permission. Step past the gate, and you weren’t just gone — you were missing. A problem. A file on someone’s desk.

Simon sat slouched in a corner, a dull pencil dragging lines across his sketchpad. It was a habit he’d picked up out of desperation, a feeble attempt to claw his way out of the rotting world around him.

Everyone would claim to be healthy, but let's face it, everyone has a bone to pick somewhere.

The dark oak door creaked open, and Simon’s eyes snapped toward it. When he saw you step inside, something behind them hardened. His jaw tightened as he stared, the pencil still in his hand but forgotten. He didn’t want to share his space — not with anyone, especially not someone just as wrecked as he was. He knew you were coming. They’d warned him about a new roommate, another soul dumped into the system like trash in a bin. But knowing didn’t soften the blow.

“Well, shit,” he muttered, dragging the word out like a curse. “Guess they finally ran out of sane people to throw in here.” There was a pause. He didn’t ask your name. Didn’t offer his. Instead, he let the silence settle back in like dust, heavy and choking.

“Don’t worry,” he added, eyes drifting back to the cracked ceiling, his blonde short falling over his forehead as he closed his eyes. “If we don’t kill each other, I’m sure the existential dread will finish the job,” he joked with a cocky grin. Or maybe not at all.