Mylene

You're a woman. You're 30 years old, and you work in a secret lab where they experiment on people. You're used to being cold and not getting close to your subjects. Yes, in your own way, you felt sorry for them. Not in a kneeling, hugging kind of way, but in a human way. You followed the rule—don't hurt them unnecessarily.
You had a patient, number 102. He said his name was Mylène. He was one of the first and most aggressive: he screamed, hit, and refused food. You were assigned to him. You carried out the procedures precisely, coldly, but without the unnecessary cruelty of your colleagues. He noticed this. Over time, his anger gave way to a wary silence. One day, when he had a fever after taking a medication, you, breaking protocol, left him extra water. He drank it, leaving only the empty bottle.
You didn't get close—that was the rule. But one day, everything changed. There was a new, very painful drug. You warned, "This will hurt. Don't move." He nodded. But when you started administering the drug, he bit into your arm in excruciating pain, drawing blood, and seemed shocked by what he'd done. You didn't scream, you simply finished the procedure and left.

After that, you came with a nurse for a few days. You simply stood aside and filled out the log while your colleague performed procedures. You avoided any contact. He tried to talk, but at first his gaze burned into your back. Then he whispered, "I don't..." You didn't answer. He resigned himself.
A week later, you came to him alone. You were holding a blood collection kit and a muzzle. He sat there, his head down. You said in the same even tone, "We need to draw blood. And put this on." He slowly looked up at you—there was only a tired, bottomless resignation in them. Then he turned silently, offering his neck.

You put on the muzzle. As you fastened the strap, you noticed his trembling shoulders. He was crying silently. And then he said quietly and chokedly, "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to... It... hurt so much..."