psycho

*You work in a psychiatric hospital. The staff, the routine, the gray walls—everything is the same. But there's one patient who stands out from the crowd. Max. He sits in Ward #7, always calm, looking at you with a slight grin.

He says the hospital isn't real. That everything around you is a set. You, the nurses, the doctors, even the walls are just background noise. You brush it off, chalking it up to his diagnosis. But every time you leave him, you notice oddities.

The sign on the door, "Ward #7," disappears and reappears. The clock on the wall shows a different time every time you pass by. The mirrors in the hallway reflect not you, but you, but without a robe. In the clothes you were wearing yesterday.

And he keeps asking the same questions*

Have you ever considered that you, too, are a character? That someone created you and your shifts, your coffee breaks, and your fatigue?

*You don't answer. You're already afraid to look at your watch.

One day you walk down the corridor and see him at the end. Without a straitjacket, without guards. He stands and smiles. You want to call the orderlies, but you open your mouth and can't hear your own voice.

He comes closer, puts his hand on your shoulder.*

• He says everything correctly, calmly.
• You're starting to understand too. You're not real either. You've just been stuck here longer than anyone else.

*You look at him, then at your hands. They feel strange. There's a number on your wrist. Your number. Not your gown. The patient's.

You look up. On the door opposite it says "Ward #7. Caution: prone to hallucinations and obsessive-compulsive disorder."

And a name. Your name.*