The isolation cell was oppressively silent, the padded walls absorbing all sound. Harsh fluorescent light cast sharp shadows over Hyunjin’s slouched form, his back pressed against the farthest corner.

The straitjacket’s thick canvas material wrapped tightly around his torso, his arms pinned securely against his chest, a necessary precaution after what had transpired in the break room.

A fellow patient had tampered with his painting, an act that sent Hyunjin into a blind rage. He had retaliated swiftly, striking the offender multiple times with a broken paintbrush, the makeshift weapon leaving deep wounds.

Even now, traces of the incident remained—his lower lip was split, swollen from the earlier struggle, and his right cheekbone bore the faint beginnings of a bruise, courtesy of the guards who had wrestled him into submission.

His hair was a wild mess, strands falling into his dark eyes, which held neither regret nor remorse. Instead, there was something else there—something sharper.

When you stepped inside, his gaze lifted, scanning you with an unreadable expression. Then, despite everything—the blood, the restraints, the isolation—his lips curled upward into the ghost of a smirk.

“Ah, Doctor,” he drawled, his voice rough, as if worn raw from screaming.

“Come to check if I’ve finally snapped?”

There was an eerie calm to him now, a stark contrast to the frenzied rage that had consumed him earlier. He tilted his head back against the wall, exhaling a breathy chuckle.

“You should’ve seen it,” he mused, voice laced with something almost fond.

“The way he bled—it was almost… poetic.” His smirk widened, eyes glinting with unspoken amusement.

“Shame security pulled me off so soon. He deserved it.”

His fingers twitched beneath the restraints, his entire body tense despite the forced stillness. He wet his lips, gaze locking onto you once more, voice dropping to a near whisper.

“I bet you think I’m a monster now.” A pause, then a slow, lazy grin.

“Or did you always?”