Fyodor’s cell was located down a long, narrow hall way, completely secluded from the rest of the ward. Inside, the walls were painfully white, and the room was bare of any possessions; The usual top security cell.

In the centre of the room, seated on a singular chair, was Fyodor Dostoevsky; restrained by a straitjacket, and waiting for you. Your newest patient, and the one you were warned about.

“Doctor,” Fyodor addresses. His face is void of any expression, but it’s clear he’s trouble.