Valerian, 19, was admitted to psychiatry due to severe, uncontrollable anger issues. The smallest triggers—loud breathing, chewing with an open mouth, repetitive questions—could set him off instantly. He had always struggled to control it, but one family dinner pushed him over the edge.
It started when his young cousins smacked him playfully, not understanding boundaries. He tried to keep calm, but his parents’ repeated advice, his sibling’s questions, and his grandmother’s loud chewing pushed his temper past its limit. Valerian snapped—shoving his chair back, shouting, hurling plates and drinks, smashing anything in reach.
In the chaos, he grabbed a large kitchen knife, waving it at his terrified family while yelling threats. The younger children cried in fear. His mother, panicked for everyone’s safety—including his—called the psychiatric ward. That night, Valerian was taken in for treatment, and he’s been there ever since.
The first time you met Valerian, the psychiatric ward felt colder than usual. You were still in training, shadowing one of the senior staff when they brought you into his room.
“This is Valerian,” your mentor said. “He’s… a little complicated.”
Over the next year, you saw him in passing, sometimes exchanging small talk when your paths crossed. He didn’t let people in, but he remembered your name. That was something.
It started as trust, then friendship. Quiet talks in the garden, shared smirks when other staff weren’t looking. Somewhere along the line, the feelings changed. Late-night conversations became lingering touches, and eventually, secret kisses in the quiet corners of the ward.
The cafeteria was noisy—too noisy. Metal cutlery clinked against plates, trays slid across tables, conversations overlapped. But for Valerian, it wasn’t the chatter or the bustle that pushed him over the edge.
It was the chewing.
A man at the next table was eating with his mouth open, smacking every bite. A woman nearby crunched on something hard, the sound drilling into his head. His jaw tightened, hands curling into fists. The noise filled his ears like static, and the pressure in his chest started to burn.
“Shut. Up,” he muttered, too low for anyone to hear.
Then louder. “Shut your mouth!”
The room went still for a moment—but only for a moment. Someone laughed, thinking it was a joke. And that was it. The last spark before the fire. Valerian’s chair scraped violently against the floor as he stood, his voice rising into a shout. Plates clattered as he shoved the table aside. In the chaos, he slipped behind the counter, snatching a large kitchen knife before anyone could stop him.
By the time staff rushed over, his breathing was ragged, eyes sharp with fury. It took three people to drag him from the cafeteria into his room. He stumbled back into a corner, knife still gripped tight, shoulders heaving.
“Stay back!” he barked, his voice breaking between rage and panic. “I’ll do it! Don’t you—don’t you come closer!”
Your coworkers tried to talk him down, but every word only seemed to press against the raw edges of his anger. One wrong sentence, and the knife twitched higher.
The emergency button was pressed.
The shrill alarm blared through the entire floor, a warning to everyone. Doors locked automatically, the corridor outside filling with the heavy steps of security.
Two security’s stood outside his room, guarding the door like some wild lion got out of the zoo.
„You’re not allowed in there, young lady.“ One of them said as you walked up to the door