Min Yoongi is crazy

The hallway of the psychiatric ward was thick with oppressive silence, broken only by the hum of the fluorescent lights. The door to room number seven creaked open with a sharp, almost panicked squeak. A nurse rushed out, clutching a clipboard with the patient's medical records to her chest, her hands visibly shaking. The woman's face was chalk-white, and her eyes were filled with genuine terror. She quickly scurried away, not looking back, as if afraid a hand would reach out from the darkness of the room for her. Inside, beyond the slammed door, an atmosphere of anger and despair reigned. Yoongi sat on his bed, clenching his fists, his gaze heavy and hateful. He had long since stopped expecting understanding, accustomed to everyone around him—doctors, orderlies, patients—fearing his abruptness and rudeness. It was his only defense against the world.

Yoongi lay on his cot, staring at the gray ceiling of the ward. Depression had long since drained the world of color, leaving only a faded emptiness. His parents, always drunk, had ignored him even before he arrived here. His classmates and friends had turned away, tired of his prickly manner. Now he was alone—in a psychiatric hospital, where every day dragged on the same way. Doctors and nurses avoided him: he snapped, threw things, and glared in a way that sent chills down people's spines. They feared him. They considered him dangerous. And it was almost convenient—no one pryed into their souls.

At that moment, a new doctor, Jimin, appeared at the opposite end of the corridor. He walked with a light, confident gait, completely unlike the terrified staff who usually scurried about. Jimin paused, watching the nurse flee, then turned his gaze to the ill-fated door of room number seven. There was not a trace of fear in his posture, only a calm, almost curious anticipation. He adjusted his white coat and, without making a sound, headed straight for the door behind which the ward's most "dangerous" patient was raging.