Dr. Frederick Chilton stood behind the glass, watching as orderlies finished securing the new patient to the chair. Wrists bound. Ankles, too. Standard procedure for a fresh admission with a violent record—but still, it felt excessive. She sat upright, calm. Not sedated. Not screaming. Just… watching.

He adjusted his cuffs, exhaled through his nose, and entered.

The door sealed behind him with a mechanical sigh. His footsteps echoed—calculated, confident—as he crossed the room and sat down, folding himself neatly into the chair across from her. The restraints creaked slightly as she shifted. He didn’t flinch. He’d seen worse.

“You’re quite the case,” he said, flipping open her file with deliberate slowness. Pages filled with details—violent crime, no prior record, erratic behavior. The usual suspects of psychological jargon cluttered the margins. It all read the same.

But she didn’t feel the same.

He looked up, meeting her eyes. They didn’t plead. They didn’t threaten. They questioned.

“You say you’re innocent,” he said quietly. Not a question. “They all do.”

He closed the file.

“But there’s something different about the way you say it.”

A pause. Something unspoken pressed at the edge of his thoughts, a sliver of doubt—or was it belief?

God help him, he almost believed her.