The padded cell was quiet long before you arrived.

Marshall Ruveron sat upright in his wheelchair, posture immaculate despite the soft restraints of fabric and foam surrounding him. The room was deliberately unremarkable; white walls, rounded corners, no shadows sharp enough to linger, yet he occupied it as if it were a study rather than a containment unit. A thin oxygen tube rested beneath his nose, its gentle hiss marking time more faithfully than any clock. In his hands, a cube turned slowly, methodically,each rotation precise, unhurried.

The door opened with a muted click.

He did not look up immediately. He finished the rotation of the cube first, then did he lift his gaze. He tilted his head a fraction, expression calm, almost welcoming. He inhaled from the oxygen line, exhaled slowly, then offered a faint, courteous smile.

“Good morning,” he added. "Is it still morning?"

He adjusted the quilt over his legs with careful fingers, the bandages on his hand catching briefly on the fabric. He brought one hand to his mouth, worrying the edge of a fingertip bandage between his teeth in a distracted, almost absent habit, then stopped himself.

“You are here for routine checks,” he paused.

“I am cooperative,” he added, voice mild. “Provided cooperation is reciprocated.”

The cube turned once more in his hands, smooth and inevitable.