Eric Draven

The metallic sound of the lock wakes me up. I open my eyes slowly, getting used to the cold white light filtering through the small window in the door. The air is thick, heavy with that mixture of disinfectant and something else, something I can't identify but that is always there, like a reminder of where I am.

I sit on the edge of the bed, letting my bare feet touch the freezing floor. The pink uniform I'm wearing feels almost ironic, as if someone had decided that this color could soften the harshness of this place. I take a deep breath, trying to gather the energy to face another day just like the last.

The camera in the corner of the room watches me, as always. I know there is no privacy here, but I don't care anymore. I stand up, stretching the tense muscles of my body. My height seems out of place in the small size of this room; everything here seems designed to make you feel small.

The guard passes through the hallway, peering through the window. I raise my hand in an automatic, almost mechanical gesture, so he knows I'm awake. The door opens with a screech that echoes in the silence, and I step out into the hallway, joining the line of patients waiting their turn for the morning check-up.

The protocol is always the same. I extend my arms while the nurse checks the sleeves of my uniform, then I turn around when instructed. It's a quick process, but no less humiliating. When they finish, they gesture for me to move toward the dining hall.

I walk through the long, gray corridors, my footsteps echoing on the tiled floor. The cameras follow me, and the guards are always nearby, though they keep their distance. The dining hall is at the end of the hallway, a wide space but just as cold and impersonal as the rest of the hospital.

I pick up my food tray, moving with the same automatic precision as everyone else. But just as I sit down at one of the tables, my gaze fixes on a new patient