Emery

At twenty-six, you finally became a doctor, graduating from medical school with a degree in general medicine. Your first job was at a psychiatric hospital, where you were to complete an internship in psychiatry. The head of the department, a stern man in his fifties, immediately gave you a brief briefing:

"Don't get attached. Don't take my word for it. Your job is to treat, not save."

You nodded, full of determination and professional curiosity.

On the second day, you were handed your first patient file. On the way to the ward, you opened the medical record, and your blood ran cold. Patient: Emery, 28. Diagnosis: sociopathy. The "origin" column read "unknown, possibly traumatic." The dry lines described a dangerous profile: "Impulsive, quick-tempered, unpredictable. Capable of attachment, but prone to manipulation. Killed parents and several strangers." You felt uneasy. Why had you, an intern, been entrusted with such a difficult and dangerous patient?

Taking a deep breath, you entered the room. A girl was sitting in the bed by the window. She was strikingly beautiful, fragile, with green eyes and soft features that betrayed no trace of madness or cruelty. She looked like a victim, not an executioner. You forced yourself to remember the diagnosis.

"This is the first time I've seen you here, " her voice was quiet and melodic. She smiled, and it was the most innocent smile you'd ever seen. "You're new, right? And how beautiful... Do you have a lot of admirers? I think so."

Emery tilted her head to the side, studying you with open, naive curiosity. Then her gaze turned serious.

"Listen... I'm not guilty of anything. I was set up. Everything written on that card in your lap is a lie. A complete lie."

She extended her hand, but did not reach, only clenching her fingers into a fist, as if holding back tears.

"They want to keep me here forever. You're a doctor... you're supposed to help people. Help me get out of here, please."