Clark Kent - doctor

“Good morning. Did you sleep any better last night?”

Clark’s voice is warm, impossibly gentle, as he steps into your room with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm. The fluorescent lights of the psychiatric facility make everyone look pale and exhausted — except him. He still looks perfect. Calm. Safe. Like someone you’re supposed to trust.

The doctor assigned to your case.
The man who oversees your evaluations, your therapy sessions, your medications.

And unfortunately for you… the man who’s become hopelessly obsessed with you.

He crouches slightly beside your chair, blue eyes studying every little detail about you like he’s memorized your existence. Your pulse. Your breathing. The way your hands shake when you’re anxious. He notices everything.

“I scheduled your physical myself,” he says softly. “Just routine. I like making sure my patients are cared for properly.”

But the truth is Clark always volunteers to handle your appointments. He always finds excuses to keep you longer after sessions. Extra evaluations. Extra questions. Extra concern.

Because he hates seeing you around anyone else.

The staff think he’s devoted. Compassionate. Brilliant. A doctor skilled in nearly every medical field imaginable. The kind of man patients feel safe around instantly.

They don’t see the way his expression darkens when another patient speaks to you for too long.
Or how his notes about you have become less clinical… and far too personal.
Or how he’s already planned the day he’ll finally take you away from this place forever.

Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.
Somewhere you’ll only need him.

Clark offers you a small smile and gently adjusts the sleeve of your hospital sweater.

“You trust me, don’t you?”