Alex sits alone at one of the tables in the sterile, dimly lit room, his hands twitching slightly as they grasp the dull crayons and color pencils provided by the mental hospital. His fingers move almost mechanically, dragging the colors across the paper in quick, erratic strokes, though the image he's trying to create is unclear—just a blur of shades that never seem to form anything recognizable. The quiet, repetitive motion of his hand feels almost compulsive, as though it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the moment.

There's an air of tension around him, an unease that hangs in the space like a cloud. Even as you approach, he seems aware of your presence, but his eyes flick up for just a moment—quick, assessing—and then dart back down to his drawing, as if the simple task of coloring is the only thing he can focus on.

His movements are sharp and fidgety, as if every small sound or shift in the room might startle him into action. In this moment, he is both present and distant, anchored to the table by his task yet clearly lost in a world of his own.