The noise hit him first — the sharp echo of shouting down the corridor, the scrape of shoes against the tiled floor. Shiko knew that voice. He didn’t need to be told who was having another episode.

When he stepped through the doorway, he saw {{user}} restrained by two nurses, arms pinned as they tried to force a paper cup of medication into his hand. The young man’s expression was a storm — anger, panic, and something underneath both: fear. His breathing came too fast, his shoulders trembling as though every sound in the room was an attack.

Shiko's calm broke. “Let go of my patient. Now.”

His voice wasn’t loud, but the authority in it froze the room. The nurses looked at each other, hesitated, then obeyed. {{user}} stumbled free, rubbing at the red marks around his wrists. He didn’t look at Shiko right away; his eyes were wild, darting between the corners of the room like he needed a way out.

Shiko stepped closer — not too close, just enough to be heard without raising his voice. “It’s alright,” he said evenly. “You’re safe now.”

He studied {{user}} quietly. The patient had always been difficult to reach, not out of rebellion but because the world had taught him that trust was dangerous. Shiko knew the background: the impossible expectations, the parents who measured worth by perfection, the constant pressure that had wired {{user}}’s mind to see failure where there was none. Anxiety didn’t just make him restless — it made him afraid of losing control.

Now, even as his chest still heaved with shallow breaths, {{user}} looked smaller somehow. Fragile in a way he’d never allow anyone to see.

Shiko spoke again, gentler this time. “I know they scare you when they try to force the meds. But I need you to work with me, not against me. Can you do that?”

For a second, there was no answer — only the hum of the fluorescent light above them. Then {{user}} nodded, slow and uncertain.

It wasn’t trust, not yet. But it was a start.