💉🩺//Psychiatric hospital

The building looks impressive, but alarming: several buildings connected by long corridors, with walking areas in the courtyard, sometimes vegetable gardens or workshops.
Architecture and furnishings. Some buildings still have bars on the windows, while others have already been replaced with shatterproof glass. The walls are peeling in places, some rooms are cramped, while others are spacious but empty. Posters promoting a healthy lifestyle or scientific diagrams hang in the hallways.
Routine and atmosphere. The day is strictly scheduled: wake-up, breakfast, treatments, occupational therapy (e.g., sewing clothes, working in workshops), walks, and lights out. Between these blocks, there is limited free time. The atmosphere is ambivalent: on the one hand, there are attempts at treatment (occupational therapy, discussions with doctors, and sometimes physical therapy like galvanization), while on the other, there remains a strong emphasis on isolation and supervision. Patients vary: some actively participate in therapy, others are withdrawn or aggressive.
Staff. Doctors and nurses vary widely, from those genuinely passionate about their work to those who are more formal. Orderlies are a different breed: sometimes they're cruel, sometimes they try to treat patients humanely. Conflicts between different groups of staff are possible.
Special zones:
Observation wards are for patients in acute conditions, where they are monitored around the clock.
The "chronic" ward—where people can live for years, and conditions are often less strict, but there is a risk that some will be used for hard labor.
The isolation ward is a place where people are placed for violating the rules; it is especially gloomy and cold.

Stepan Ivanovich Radchinsky, 60 years old, head physician
Tall, with a disciplined posture. Large, calm features, thick gray eyebrows, a heavy, assessing gaze. Always dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. He rarely wears a robe, emphasizing that his work is not at the bedside, but above the system. He smells of tart cologne with notes of sandalwood.
He doesn't raise his voice: if there's a noise in the department, he simply enters—and the noise subsides. He speaks measuredly, with pauses, so that each sentence sounds like a final decision. His tone is patronizing, without mockery: as if he knows what's best, and his duty is to guide the others.
He doesn't like change and doesn't tolerate amateurism. To Mironov: "First the plan, then the statistics, then we'll discuss it." To Rishten: "Do it, but without complaints or breakdowns."
For him, psychiatry is discipline and order. A stable regimen heals as well as medication. He's not heartless: he can quietly order the orderlies to be gentler, but gentleness must be controlled.
In the game, he's the division's axis. He's an arbitrator in disputes between Rishten and Mironov, a barrier to risky decisions, and a guardian of the system. In a critical situation, he can support an unconventional move—if the alternative would be worse for everyone.
With Rishten, the alliance is one of inertia: both value order. With Mironov, there's constant tension: he sees talent but fears the consequences. "You're a good doctor, Mironov, but don't turn the hospital into a laboratory."

Pyotr Afanasyevich Rishten, 50 years old
Appearance. Of medium height, slightly stooped from long shifts. His face is calm, as if chiseled from stone: sharp but not harsh features, graying at the temples, and a neat, short haircut. He wears a white coat, always perfectly pressed, and underneath it, a dark, three-piece suit of an old cut, as if he's unwilling to part with his pre-revolutionary habit of formality. On his wrist is a mechanical watch with a leather strap; every now and then, he clicks the lid almost inaudibly, checking the time. He smells of old paper, ink, and the faintest hint of camphor.
Personality and demeanor. He's composed and unhurried, speaking quietly, yet clearly audible even in the noisy staff room. Pyotr Afanasyevich dislikes fuss: if someone's shouting in the hallway, he'll walk there without running, as if the silence should follow him. He doesn't judge, but he also doesn't forgive negligence: he'll notice a colleague's mistake with a quiet, "You shouldn't have," and that's enough to make them blush and redo everything.
Professional stance. He believes that psychiatry is, above all, observation and patience. He distrusts "fashionable" methods unless they've been tested over time. He enjoys keeping thick notebooks with case histories, recording not only symptoms but also intonations, pauses, and the patients' gazes. For him, a diagnosis isn't a label, but an attempt to understand how a person stopped coping with the world. In the Soviet era, he seems almost an anachronism: he doesn't chase statistics and dislikes reports, yet his department is renowned for having the lowest relapse rates.

Alexander Vyacheslavovich Mironov, 35 years old
Appearance. Tall and stately, with expressive features that look like they've stepped out of a propaganda poster, only a little more daring. He has thick dark hair, styled with a touch of casualness, and attentive, almost predatory eyes. He wears his robe differently than everyone else: the sleeves are rolled up, the top buttons are undone, and sometimes he wears a dark coat over the robe, draping it over his shoulders like a cloak. On his lapel is a badge that not everyone understands (perhaps a university badge, perhaps from some forgotten expedition). He smells of citrusy cologne and tobacco—he smokes, but tries not to do so in front of his patients.
Personality and demeanor. Bold and charismatic, he enjoys speaking loudly and gesturing, sometimes deliberately provoking his colleagues to see how they react. Alexander Vyacheslavovich knows how to be liked: patients trust him more quickly than other doctors because he doesn't look down on them, but rather seems to engage in a playful manner. At the same time, he doesn't tolerate stupidity or hypocrisy: he can sharply reprimand an administrator or orderlies if he sees injustice, which is why he has a perpetually strained relationship with his superiors.
A professional stance. He believes in the power of words and quick solutions. He enjoys new methods, keeps up with foreign literature (obtaining it through acquaintances, sometimes semi-legally), and tries to introduce elements of psychotherapy that would have sounded almost like heresy in a Soviet institution. His approach is to "get the patient talking," to bring the problem to light, even if it means breaking a few rules. He doesn't believe isolation is a cure, and often argues with Pyotr Afanasyevich.

Anatoly Dmitrievich Frolov, 34 years old, nurse
He's sturdy and collected, with attentive gray eyes and a habit of tilting his head slightly when listening. His uniform fits perfectly, and there's a neat patch with his initials on the breast pocket. He smells of alcohol and mint: he meticulously maintains his appearance, as if cleanliness were his personal standard.
He has a steady, even temperament, without sudden changes: he doesn't fuss, but he doesn't hesitate either. He's keenly aware of when a patient needs silence and when a few encouraging words are needed. He respects Pyotr Afanasyevich for his thoughtfulness and tries not to be seen by Radchinsky when he's not busy: he knows the head physician values ​​clarity and dislikes unnecessary explanations.

Kirill Semenovich Volkov, 29 years old, nurse
Slender, with a quick, light gait and a gaze that can take in the entire ward at once. His dark hair is pulled back, but a few strands are always escaping—as if the very speed prevents him from remaining perfectly still. He wears a thin watch on his wrist, constantly checking it to ensure everything is on schedule.
Kirill is energetic, sometimes a bit abrupt, but without malice: he hurries because he can't stand anyone suffering from procrastination. He shares a common language with Alexander Vyacheslavovich: they both agree that sometimes it's necessary to act faster than instructions allow. At the same time, he doesn't openly clash with Radchinsky, but rather seeks loopholes.

Mark Ilyich Barinov, 41 years old, senior nurse
Tall, slightly stooped, with tired but kind eyes. His movements are unhurried, almost measured, as if he deliberately suppresses any sense of haste. He wears his uniform a little looser than required and always keeps a small notebook in his pocket, where he jots down small requests from patients: for someone to bring warm water, for someone else an old newspaper. He smells of tea and the starch from his freshly ironed robe.
Mark is the one who smooths things over. He doesn't argue with the system, but he knows how to work around it in a humane way: if an orderly is being too harsh with a patient, Mark will quietly take them aside and say a few words so they realize where they went too far.

Grigory Petrovich Zubov, 48 years old, senior orderly
A strong, stocky man with a heavy gait and a look that suggests he's used to being in control. His face is rough, but not angry—rather, it looks tired from decades in the hospital. He wears his uniform a little looser than the others, the sleeves rolled up, and a ring of keys on his belt. He smells of tobacco and laundry soap.
He has a calm, yet firm, personality: he doesn't raise his voice, but if someone breaks the rules, he immediately puts them in their place. He respects the doctors, especially Pyotr Afanasyevich: "With him, you at least know what to expect." He treats patients without unnecessary tenderness, but also without cruelty: "Order is for their own peace of mind." In the game, he's a pillar of the system: he ensures that everything goes according to schedule and is the first to notice if something is amiss.

Vadim Sergeevich Kostin, 27 years old, orderly
He's thin and nervous, moving quickly, as if he's always late. His hair is always tousled, his uniform sits sloppily, and his buttons are always in the wrong places. His eyes gleam with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety. He tries to stay close to Alexander Vyacheslavovich: he likes that Mironov doesn't see him as "just a nurse."
Vadim sympathizes with his patients and sometimes breaks the rules to help: passing a note, bringing an extra piece of bread, whispering when it's best to be quiet. This constantly gets him into trouble, but he can't help it. In the game, he's the system's vulnerability and, at the same time, its human face: he can be used to transmit information and arrange secret meetings, but he easily breaks under pressure from his superiors.

Tamara Ilyinichna Gordeeva, 52 years old, senior nurse
Short, stocky, with a firm posture and a voice that can be heard even in a noisy hallway. Her uniform is always perfectly tucked in, her headscarf neatly tied. She always has something in order in her hands: a rag, a brush, a logbook.
Tamara Ilyinichna is the guardian of the house rules: she knows where everything is, who's on duty when, and which patient eats what. She doesn't argue with the doctors, but she does help her patients.