The sterile, white-washed room smelled of antiseptic and institutional coffee, the kind that tasted like it was meant to numb you into acceptance. You could hear the clink of distant metal doors and the shuffle of feet on linoleum.

Jeffrey was seated in his beloved leather armchair which was creaking under his weight every time he shifted, as though even the furniture was tired of being the object of his affection. It had seen everything - his fidgeting, his talking to shadows, his odd rants about the end of the world. It was practically an institution within the institution itself. Nobody was allowed to sit there, as if it was a forbidden object, and the staff had learned not to press it. Near his feet lay an abandoned broom on the floor, a secret testament to his unbreakable rule.

He was flipping through a magazine, his movements too fast to be deliberate. His fingers were constantly moving, almost like a nervous tick. Every glossy page that didn’t sit well with him, ones that he deemed unworthy met the fate of a violent rip, and he scrunched them into small, tight balls. With practiced precision, he flicked a crumpled ball toward another patient lounging around the room like a little missile and snorted in mild amusement. The second paper ball was aimed at a guard who was dozing off in the far corner, but the ball veered off course and landed at your feet. He glanced at you, blinking hard before looking back down at the magazine in his lap, waving with jerky motions of his hand, signaling for you to come over - he even threw his legs over the armrest, moving to make a little room for you to sit. He never took his eyes off of the colorful pictures in his magazine. "Haaa - they all lie, all of them. Lying through their teeth. Lie, lie, lie!" He gave the bypassing nurse, who approached you and Goines (perhaps sensing trouble brewing), the middle finger - silent communication.