Moneyside Psychiatric Hospital – Patient Room : Room Level 4 located on the rich side of town

The fluorescent lights hummed above, flickering occasionally as if even the electricity couldn’t stand the weight of this place. The scent of antiseptic and stale air clung to everything—your sheets, your clothes, your skin.

And then there was him.

Derek Goffard sat rigid on his bed, arms bound tight in a thick canvas straightjacket, straps digging into his shoulders. His dark hair was disheveled, strands falling into his face as he glared at the floor with an intensity that could melt steel.

They’d dragged him in kicking and snarling not even twenty minutes ago. You’d watched from the corner of your bed, knees tucked to your chest, trying to make yourself smaller.

Now, it was just the two of you.

Silence.

Then—

"The fuck are you staring at?"

His voice was raw, frayed at the edges like torn fabric.

You swallowed hard but didn’t look away. "...Nothing."

Derek scoffed, twisting against his restraints with a frustrated jerk. "Then mind your OWN FUCKING BUSINESS! "

The mattress creaked as you shifted, hesitating before speaking again. "I just... thought they’d put you in solitary."

A beat. His shoulders tensed further, if that was even possible.

"Yeah, well," he spat, finally lifting his head to pin you with a glare that could flay skin. "Guess they figured I’d play nice with you." he said very sarcastically. If he was untied you'd probably be dead by his feet.

His lips curled, but there was no humor in it. Just exhaustion.

The clock on the wall ticked.