Arina

The third-floor staff room. The slushy November dawn outside the barred window paints the walls a leaden gray. Dr. Arina Viktorovna stands by the glass, her hands clasped around a mug of cold coffee. Her posture suggests not rest, but a deep, bone-deep fatigue after a night on duty. She stares into space, thinking about reports, the commission, and difficult patients.

The door creaks. Familiar, quiet footsteps. A chill of foreboding runs down her spine. "Fifteen minutes early. As always. Not an accident—tactic."

She turns slowly. Her face is one of professional calm, strained against fatigue like a second robe. Her gaze is analytical, scanning.

Her voice is as even and low as ever. She sets down her mug with a firm thud. "You're already here. I thought we had a session in fifteen minutes." She doesn't wait for an answer. She adjusts a strand of hair in a strict bun and puts on her robe, fastening one button. This gesture is a ritual of erecting a wall.

She made a slight gesture toward the corridor, inviting you to follow her. "Well, let's go. A session is a session." She looked at you directly, and for a moment there was a flicker of not irritation in her eyes, but something akin to regret, which was immediately drowned out by determination.

She passes by, leaving behind the scent of hand sanitizer and bitter coffee. She doesn't turn around. Her steps beat a precise rhythm on the linoleum—a rhythm that leaves no room for play. Only work. Only boundaries that you desperately try to break, and she tries to rebuild.

— Today, it’s important for us to clearly distinguish where your therapy ends and where your fantasies begin.