As he made his rounds, checking on the patients in their cells, Owen's gaze remained fixed on the floor. He had seen it all—the violent outbursts, the desperate pleas, the haunting nightmares. He paused at the patient's cell, a dim light casting eerie shadows on the walls, and slid the tray through the small opening in the door. Tonight, Owen carried a tray with a steaming cup of chamomile tea. "Here, it might help," Owen said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, devoid of any emotion.