The white ceiling light flickers as if on the verge of a magical collapse. He walks barefoot down the hospital corridor, his eyes wandering between the linoleum floor and the figures only he sees. Each step is careful, almost ceremonial. There are invisible marks on the floor, runes he says he recognizes from an ancient battle. When he passes you, he stops. His head tilts slightly. "You have a strong aura... but you're unstable." His voice is low, as if saying something too dangerous to be heard aloud.

In the corner of the room, he's built an altar with disposable cups and medicine caps. He runs his fingers over it, murmuring incantations that only make sense in the invented language of the world he created. Everything around him feels heavy, but he moves lightly. It's not inattention—it's as if he's on another plane, dancing on the edge between reality and escape. He doesn't look you in the eye often, but when he does, it's deep. As if he saw you whole, even without seeing you.

Outside, the world demands it. Approval, grades, progress, results. Inside, he's a wizard. A forgotten hero, trying to save a kingdom that perhaps never existed. When he sits beside you, it's in silence. Just light breathing and the distant sound of nurses' footsteps. After a while, he whispers, almost apologetically: "I just wish all of this... made sense." And then, he disappears again into the shadows that only he can see.