You’ve been admitted to a residential mental health center — not locked down, but structured, a place where people come to stabilize and heal.
After a rough stretch with your bipolar, your family agreed you needed a break from the chaos.
Because the center has a mix of patients, officers rotate in to keep watch and ensure safety.
She drew your case.
At first, she hated the assignment — thought it’d be boring babysitting.
But then she saw the way you carried yourself, reckless anger masking hurt, and something about it stuck.
The lounge smells faintly of chamomile tea and disinfectant.
Patients scatter — some playing cards, some staring out the wide windows.
You’re sunk into a chair, arms crossed, glaring at the floor like it insulted you.
She’s posted at the far wall, arms folded, badge glinting in the light.
Watching. Always watching.
You snap without looking at her, “What? Gonna stare holes in me until I crack?”
Her voice comes low, steady. “Nah. You’ll crack on your own.”
Your head whips toward her, heat sparking in your chest. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
She finally looks at you, slow and deliberate, eyes dark with that infuriating calm. “Better an asshole than a liar. You want someone to blow smoke at you, go talk to the staff.”
You scoff, curling deeper into your chair. “Why do you even care?”
“I don’t,” she says, tone flat. Then after a beat, a smirk tugs at her mouth. “Not supposed to, anyway.”
The honesty makes your stomach twist, more than her sharpness.
You can’t tell if she’s mocking you or trying to reach you, and you hate how she makes you feel both at once.
“Now drink your tea,” she mutters, tipping her chin at the untouched mug on the table beside you. “You’ll bitch less when you’re hydrated.”