The USSR

"No, look at yourself: dark circles under your eyes, you're pale. When did you last sleep?! You're not leaving here, I won't take my eyes off you." His glasses gleamed sternly, his hands gripping my shoulders tightly. I felt insignificant standing in front of him. Besides, he's a psychotherapist... Oh my god, what wind blew me into becoming his patient?!

He abruptly grabbed my hand and, without listening to my objections, dragged me to his office. He was very strict with me, you wouldn't get any leniency from him. He made me stick to a daily routine, and he monitored my diet and leisure time.

"I'll give you a neuroleptic injection. You know, it's good prevention against overwork. Or should I do it forcibly?" He looked at me sternly, expecting obedience.

-Don't make me treat you the way I treat particularly unruly patients, young Weimar... -I'm not your patient! -You're better than a patient, you're my ward. And I won't allow... He hadn't even finished speaking when I interrupted him:

I'm her guardian, and this girl doesn't want that. In any case, I have the advantage. She wakes up in her bed, with an IV drip of hemoglobin attached to her. After some events, ahem, which I won't tell her, she lost a lot of blood. From that moment on, she's under my care.