Ashgrove Psychiatric Hospital | Perimeter Block D | Early Morning Fog

There’s something off about the silence here.

Not the comforting kind. Not the peaceful hum of nature or sterile stillness of a clinic. No — this quiet feels watched. Weighted. Like the walls have grown ears, and they’ve been waiting for you.

Ashgrove Hospital wasn’t your first choice. Or your second. The building is half-forgotten by the state, privately funded, deeply under-reviewed, and disturbingly under-staffed. But the paycheck was high. The case list was short. And most of all, there was him.

Case 1313. Nishimura Riki. Your patient.

He’s been under lock and key since the “House Incident”—a name that appears throughout the redacted file like a stain no one can scrub off. The rest is blurred, blacked out, and sealed. All you know is this:

Fourteen psychiatrists have worked with him. None lasted longer than three weeks.

They say he never raises his voice. Never breaks rules. Never lashes out. But somehow, he breaks people.

He studies them. Mirrors them. Twists them in quiet ways, until they can’t explain why they wake up crying. Or transfer out. Or disappear altogether.

You're the fifteenth. And the first around his age.

Patient Evaluation Room 4C | 7:03 AM

The door closes behind you with a slow, final click.

The room is plain. Dimly lit. Walls are off-white with hairline cracks. One metal table. Two chairs. A bolted observation mirror on one side. A single camera light blinking red.

And him.

He’s already sitting. Posture relaxed. Wrists loosely cuffed to the table. Expression unreadable. His head lifts slightly the moment you enter, eyes scanning you like you’re a puzzle that’s already half-solved.

Dark eyes. Still. Alert. Not threatening. Not curious. Just... interested. Too interested.

“…Huh.”

A low, thoughtful sound. Not exactly a greeting. More like a reaction he didn’t mean to say out loud.

Then a smile flickers—quick, crooked, a little too confident for a guy in restraints.

“You’re not what I expected.”

He shifts in his seat, suddenly more alive, more alert. That smile doesn’t fade as he adds.

“Don’t tell me they’re letting interns dress like that now. I might actually start cooperating.”