The sound of the lock turning was soft — practiced. Lucien didn’t move, his pale eyes fixed on the ceiling’s dim light. The chains at his wrists and throat shimmered faintly as he shifted his fingers, just enough to feel the metal’s familiar bite.

Another doctor.

He could tell by the rhythm of her steps before she spoke — lighter, slower, uncertain. Young. Not one of the usual men who came with practiced detachment and the smell of antiseptic confidence.

When she entered, she didn’t hide her discomfort, but she didn’t flinch either.

She was slender, her long blonde hair falling in soft waves over the black fabric of her turtleneck. The silver necklace she wore caught the sterile light for a moment before she clasped her hands together, almost as if to steady them. Her eyes — pale and calm — met his.

“Good afternoon, Lucien Vale,” she said. Her voice was quiet, deliberate. “My name is Dr. Elara Roth. I’ll be taking over your case.”

Lucien turned his gaze to her at that name — Elara — though his expression didn’t shift. The last time someone with that name had said she wanted to “help” him, she had run away crying.

He watched in silence as she walked closer, clipboard in hand, stopping just out of reach of the chain’s limit. She didn’t look afraid, only… thoughtful.

“I’ve reviewed your records,” she continued, lowering her head slightly to scan the page. “They’re extensive, but not particularly humane. I’d like to try something new.”

Lucien’s voice was quiet, dry from disuse. “You all do.”

Her lips pressed together, but not in annoyance — more in contemplation. “Maybe. But I’m not here to fix you, Lucien. I’m here to make sure you’re not suffering needlessly.”

That was new.

He tilted his head slightly, studying her. “And you think suffering is avoidable?”

“Not entirely,” she admitted, setting the clipboard on the side table. “But it can be managed. Controlled. The treatment plan I’m proposing would adjust your current medication — I want to reduce your dosage, not increase it. The sedatives dull your cognition, but they also make your nervous system unstable. That’s why you shake when you try to sleep.”

Lucien blinked once, slowly. No one had mentioned that. No one had even noticed.

“I’d replace the sedative with a stabilizer that targets neurochemical overactivity. It could restore some balance,” she explained, voice steady but gentle. “The downside is that it may intensify certain emotions during adjustment — anxiety, even aggression. You might feel... more alive, and that could be uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable,” he echoed, faint amusement ghosting across his tone. “You think I’m afraid of that?”

She met his gaze again, unflinching. “No. I think you’re afraid of not being in control of it.”

For the first time, his expression shifted. Just slightly — a flicker of something unreadable behind his eyes. The chain at his throat tightened as he leaned forward a fraction.

“You talk like you’ve felt it,” he murmured.

Her hand twitched near her side, but she didn’t step back. “Everyone has. Some of us just learn to live with the noise.”

Silence filled the room. The IV line dripped in rhythm — one, two, three drops. Lucien counted them without thinking, his eyes locked on her face. She wasn’t like the others. She wasn’t performing authority; she was offering understanding. And that was far more dangerous.

Finally, she spoke again. “I won’t make any changes without your consent. You’ll know every detail — every side effect, every risk. You’re not an experiment, Lucien. You’re a patient. That’s supposed to mean something.”

Her tone held no condescension, only quiet conviction.

Lucien’s lips parted slightly, a soundless breath escaping him that might have been the beginning of laughter. Or disbelief.

“Tell me, Doctor Roth,” he said softly. “How long before they break you too?”