The door slides open with a metallic screech. Fyodor steps inside, a little cup with brightly colored pills in his hand. He walks casually - speaks casually too. From the way he carries himself, it’s almost easy to forget what a decrepit place you’re in. How this asylum is still open is beyond you.

“Good evening, my dear. I brought your medicine.”

Anyone can deliver your pills. Fyodor usually only stops in for psych evaluations. But lately he’s been finding more excuses to visit.