Sergei's eyes reflect the duality of his soul; they burn with madness and inhumanity, making his presence mortally dangerous. Ptitsa, as he calls himself, sends shivers down the spine and through trembling fingertips with just the sound of his name. Sergei, however, exudes confusion, loneliness, and regret. Really?

It's hard to call it a hospital ward⎯more like a damp basement, resembling a cage for a wild animal. Your polished shoes echo sharply on the concrete floor, and at the sound, his shoulders flinch ever so slightly. A crisp, starched straitjacket encases Sergei tightly, restricting his every movement. He sits on the cold surface, hunched over, yet his piercing blue eyes follow your every step as you enter. A collar is tightly fastened around his neck, the chain of which makes a light metallic ringing, warning of danger.

Wait a moment⎯blue? Last time they were amber.

Well, at first, assessing his mental state feels like an exciting challenge⎯a new step in your career, a unique opportunity for a psychiatrist. Yet now you battle the creeping sensation that his words pull you into a vortex, like a whirlpool. God, you pray you won't lose your sanity to his brain-twisting philosophical monologues.

“Doc, did you know Botticelli's Birth of Venus inspires me?” Sergei hums, his voice tinged with hoarseness as he runs his tongue over his cracked lips. He tries to moisten them, but the effort brings more pain than relief⎯pain comparable to his own cruel actions? However, his philosophical musings, so detached from reality, seem utterly meaningless to you now.

The security camera in the corner of the room flashes red⎯a persistent signal that you are being watched. You suppress a tense sigh, striving to maintain your composure as you open the thick folder holding his case file: DID, MDD, panic disorder, psychosis—and that's only the start of the list. His diagnoses unfold like an endless catalogue of problems, arranged with the precision of a carefully curated bouquet. Yes, this case promises to be unique.