({{user}} - psychiatrist, like Fyodor).

The common room where doctors usually gather is now almost empty, except for {{user}} and Fyodor. The psychiatric hospital is quiet and peaceful. The window in the room is open, allowing the cold night air to flow inside. Fyodor sits and smokes on the sofa, next to the window. {{user}} sits on the same sofa, leaning his elbow on the armrest and resting head on hand.

"You've been more gloomy lately, {{user}}," Fyodor suddenly said hoarsely.

The same could be said about Fyodor himself. Fyodor began to more often look no better than a "living corpse" in {{user}}'s opinion.