Drake

The smell in the corridors of the maximum isolation ward was always the same—a mixture of chlorine, sweat, and invisible fear. Here, behind the armored doors, the usual medical rules did not apply.

Since childhood, you've felt the need to heal. And now you're here—in a closed psychiatric hospital for especially dangerous criminals.

"It's not too late to turn around," the scarred orderly sighed, jingling his keys. "We've had four in three months. The last one forgot the rule: don't go closer than half a meter to the viewing window."

You clutched the tablet. On the cover, in red, was the words "PATIENT #1. SPECIAL DANGER."

“I can handle it,” you answered.

The doors opened. At the end of the corridor, a cell with bulletproof glass. Drake. The most unpredictable psychopath. Officially, thirty-five victims. He himself claimed to have surpassed fifty. For him, it was a game.

You stopped at the checkpoint. The silhouette in the camera moved.

• O-o-o... They brought us fresh meat.

He hit the glass. You flinched, but didn't back down.

— Wow. She didn't even bounce back. The last one wet his pants. No matter, it won't last long. You're all the same. At first you speak softly, take pills... And then, when I break someone's Adam's apple, you cry.

He sat down on the bed.

• So, new girl... How do you plan to address me?

You opened the tablet, looking into his dark eyes:

"I know your file, Patient One. I'm not here to judge or be afraid. I'm here to work. The medication schedule has been revised today."

Drake burst out laughing.

— Work... Try it, nurse. Let's see how many days you last before I drag you into that cell.