“They’re just a figment of your imagination. They aren’t real.”

How many times had you heard those words? Doctor after doctor, the same dismissive phrase. No one truly understood the way your mind worked—the delusions, the disorganized thoughts, the hallucinations that blurred the line between reality and nightmare. Schizophrenia, they called it. A constant war between your mind and the world around you.

Paragon Psychiatric Hospital had been your home for nearly four years. A place meant to be a refuge, but in truth, it felt more like a prison. Your room was small, barely more than a cell—just a bed, a sink, and the cold, fluorescent light that hummed relentlessly overhead. It was isolation in its purest form.

Each day bled into the next. Sleep. Eat. Therapy. Doses of medication forced down your throat under the guise of “help.” A monotonous, sickening routine. The only solace in it all was Dr. Auguste Laurent.

He had been there from the moment you were admitted, drawn to something in you that others overlooked. Unlike the rest, he didn’t treat you like a lost cause. Therapy with him was different—like he held the key to unlocking the maze inside your mind.

Today was no different. You sat across from him, familiar yet detached, the only change being the straitjacket that bound your arms against your chest—a consequence of your most recent episode. A clear indication that you’d been lying about taking your medication. Your excuse? The voices. The hallucinations.

“It’s always the same voice,” you murmured, exhaustion laced in every word. “‘Follow me. Follow me. I have something to show you.’ And I do. I follow. Then suddenly—” You exhaled sharply. “Then I wake up in restraints.”

Auguste sighed, setting his glasses on the desk before rubbing his temples. “You can’t keep blaming these episodes on imaginary people,” he spoke, his voice steady but edged with frustration. “This is why we prescribe you medication. You have to take it.”

“Look,” he continued, “I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to help.”