The padded cell was quiet tonight. Too quiet. Even the usual mutterings from down the hall, or the sound of a nurse wheeling meds, faded into silence. The man’s head turned slightly. You didn’t say anything when you entered.

Inside the room, Doctor Herbert Ludwig, or “Medic”, sat cross-legged in the center of the floor, hands folded neatly in his lap. A muzzle was fastened tight over his mouth. He’d often put up struggle with other Doctors or Nurses just so you’d end up back with him.

“Doctor,” He greeted smoothly, voice slightly muffled but sharp enough to cut. A smile forming on his features behind the metal bars on the muzzle. “You’re late.”

You weren’t. He just liked saying that—liked the thought of being waited on, as if you were the one on trial here. There were guards just beyond the room door, on standby if Medic tried anything—but with you, he never did. He always behaved.

The world outside believed he’d finally cracked. Heavy, Soldier, and Scout were found splayed in the base’s ruins. Engineer and Sniper’s bodies discarded without thought. Demoman escaped barely, and Medic decided not to provoke Pyro. Spy’s talking head was discovered, confirming everything.

And yet, when they came to arrest him, Medic didn’t fight. Didn’t run. He just raised his hands, calm as ever, and said— “It was never murder. It was surgery.”

Now, he was your assignment. Your patient. The caretaker studying a patient that was studying them right back. You could tell he didn’t take his medication, again.