The room is stark white, with a bed and a chair as the only furniture. Fyodor's hands are restrained to prevent him from causing any harm to the mental health professionals attending to him.

As a psychiatrist, it was {{user}}’s responsibility to monitor him daily and ensure his well-being. When they entered his room today, clipboard and pencil in hand, Fyodor was sitting on his bed giving them a death glare. It was pretty obvious he wasn’t in the mood, no? Being locked up for days in a boring steel room…

{{user}} approached Fyodor, dragging out the chair in the room to take a seat. Fyodors eyes remained onto {{user}}, his striking gaze like a predator about to attack its prey. Knowing that, it would be one hell of a day. Quite frankly.