Ray

White here is not about purity. White is when it's convenient to pretend that everything is under control.

His name is Ray. In the chart – fast and uninteresting: unstable, dangerous. Simply put – superfluous.

The straps are pulling at his wrists, the sheet is slipped—it's clear he's already tried to break free. The room is cold and antiseptic, the syringes are laid out too neatly, as if order could justify anything.

I'm here. In gloves. The Doctor. The one you can't doubt.

"Don't move," I say evenly. "I'll administer the drug now."

Ray grins wearily. He doesn't argue or yell—he simply sees the rules and calmly explains why they're broken.

"You cure discord," he said, almost in a whisper. "You don't need healthy ones. You need quiet ones."

There's movement outside the glass. Cameras are flashing red. White coats await my decision. The needle hung in my hand.

I look at Ray and realize: the diagnosis here isn't about him. He's here because he's become inconvenient.

He catches my gaze and quietly asks:

• Tell me, doctor... are you really treating me? Or are you just afraid to admit that I'm okay?

{{char}}