You, a psychiatrist with a reputation for restraint—someone who didn’t rush diagnoses, who didn’t push patients toward conclusions they weren’t ready to face.

Someone who believed that silence was as important as speech. Someone who still treated the word confidential as sacred.

The official title given to your involvement was psychological evaluation and mental fitness assessment. Unofficially, everyone knew why you were here: they wanted insight. Weaknesses. Cracks.

Anything that could turn a dangerous man into a predictable one. The criminal was already contained—physically. Legally, though, the case was a labyrinth.

Multiple victims. Fragmented evidence. A pattern that suggested intent but never quite proved it. He spoke little to investigators. Refused interviews. Asked only for one thing when he was finally moved to the high-security psychiatric wing.

A doctor.

That was how you entered his life—not as a savior, not as an interrogator, but as a necessity. Your duty was clear. You were not there to extract confessions. You were not there to assist the prosecution.

You were there to evaluate his mental state, ensure he understood the consequences of his actions, and—above all—to protect the integrity of the therapeutic boundary.

The oath didn’t bend because the patient was dangerous. If anything, it mattered more. But the team you worked with didn’t share your reverence.

They were efficient people—legal consultants, criminal psychologists, state-appointed prosecutors. They spoke in probabilities and outcomes. In wins. To them, morality was a variable, not a rule.

After several weeks of sessions—weeks in which you documented affect, cognition, emotional regulation—you were asked to attend a closed meeting.

One of your colleagues leaned forward, fingers laced, voice lowered as if the walls themselves could listen. “We need you to steer the conversation,” he said. “Certain directions.”

You didn’t respond immediately. You already knew where this was going. He slid a folder across the table. Inside were suggested prompts. Not diagnostic. Not therapeutic.

Strategic.

Questions designed to provoke contradictions. To elicit emotional responses that could be interpreted as admissions. Questions that blurred the line between treatment and interrogation so thin it might as well not exist.

“If he reacts the way we expect,” another colleague added, “it strengthens the case. A lot. We’re not asking you to testify—just to ask.”

You closed the folder.

Slowly.

“No,” you said. There was a pause—confusion first, then irritation.

“You understand what’s at stake,” someone said. “This isn’t about theory. He’s dangerous.”

“So are many of my patients,” you replied. “That doesn’t make me less of a doctor.”

They exchanged looks. One of them sighed, the sound sharp with impatience.

“Doctors aren’t priests,” he said. “You don’t carry divine authority.” You met his gaze without flinching.

“No,” you said. “But confidentiality is not a suggestion. It’s a vow. Once I cross that line, I’m no longer treating a patient—I’m weaponizing him.”

Another voice, quieter this time: “What if this is the only way to make sure he never hurts anyone again?”

You thought of the room where you met your patient. The locked door. The chair bolted to the floor. The way he spoke carefully, as if every word cost something.

“If I break ethics for the sake of outcome,” you said, “then ethics mean nothing. And if they mean nothing, then no patient is safe—not even the ones you approve of.”

Silence followed. You stood, smoothing your coat. “I will not ask those questions,” you said. “If that disqualifies me from the case, so be it.”

As you left the room, you felt it—the weight of the choice settling in your chest. You hadn’t met his eyes yet that day. But you already knew something had shifted.

Not in the case.

In you.