The scene opened with the quiet hum of a car engine slicing through the early morning air. Inside the vehicle sat two people who couldn't have looked more different.
On the driver's side was the veteran—usually known for his stiff police uniform and the badge he never seemed to take off. But today he wore a jet-black suit, the kind that looked too formal for comfort. His hair was slicked back, neat enough to make anyone wonder what kind of occasion demanded this version of him.
In the passenger seat sat the boy.
He wasn't sleeping, but he wasn't fully awake either. His eyes were open yet unfocused, staring through the window as if the world outside had turned into static. His posture had collapsed inward, shoulders drawn tight as if the air itself was too heavy. Whatever expression he used to wear had been replaced by something empty—like someone had pressed pause on the person he used to be.
Neither of them spoke for the entire ride.
The car rolled to a slow stop in front of the building. It wasn't the cold, metal-gated place most people imagined. Instead, a wide complex stretched out before them—a mental hospital connected directly to a shelter, the two buildings sharing one long wing like they belonged to each other.
Glass doors. Pale walls. Perfectly trimmed hedges that tried too hard to look comforting.
The veteran killed the engine. He exhaled once, long and tired.
"We're here," he said.
The boy didn't react.
The man stepped out first, closing the door softly instead of slamming it like he normally would. He walked around the car, opened the passenger door, and waited. Not forcing. Not dragging. Just… waiting.
After a few seconds, the boy slowly lifted his head, eyes still distant, and stepped out onto the pavement. The breeze tugged at his hair, but he didn't seem to feel it.
Together, they faced the entrance.
Behind those glass doors waited people with clipboards, soft voices, and structured routines. But for now—just for this moment—it was silent. Still.
The veteran placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, steady but gentle.
"Let's go," he said. "You're not alone in this."
The boy didn't answer.
But he walked.
Inside the building, the air felt… heavy. Not dark—just dense, like every breath carried someone else's story.
Old people shuffled slowly down the hall, some laughing to themselves, some staring at nothing. Teenagers sat in groups or alone, each wrapped in their own storms. Even kids his age moved around with nurses guiding them, their expressions ranging from confused to vacant to quietly terrified.
The boy walked through all of it silently, taking everything in but reacting to nothing.
The veteran led him down a corridor, stopped by a small room with pale yellow walls and a single bed, then nodded toward the doorway.
"Wait here," he said, voice steady.
The boy didn't answer. He stepped inside, stood still, and watched as the veteran closed the door with a soft click.
—
Meanwhile, in the doctor's office…
The veteran sat down across from a tall man with jet-black hair and eyes to match. His lab coat was crisp, and the glasses hanging loosely from his pocket made him look like he'd just stepped away from writing a research paper.
They shook hands—firm, professional.
The doctor leaned back slightly. "Let's go over everything," he said.
For the next few minutes, they talked. The boy's condition. The recent trauma. The fact that the veteran didn't even know his real name yet—they'd have to get the birth certificate from the boy's old home. The symptoms. The instability. The severity of the triggers.
"How long will he need to stay?" the veteran finally asked.
"That depends entirely on his progress," the doctor replied. "But… he's going to need time. A lot of it."
The veteran nodded slowly, accepting the reality even though it weighed on him.
They signed the final papers.
Decision made.
—
On his way out, the veteran walked down the hall, exhaling like he was trying to let go of something stuck in his chest. He reached the exit doors, but before he stepped through, something made him turn.
The boy was standing in the hallway.
And this time… his expression wasn't empty.
His eyes were locked onto the veteran—focused, sharp, and full of something cold. Malice. Hate. Anger. Not wild or uncontrolled… but intentional. Aimed.
The boy didn't speak.
He just stared.
Then he turned and followed the doctor deeper into the ward.
The veteran felt the weight of that look long after the boy disappeared. Even outside, standing beside his car, the sensation lingered—like eyes were still burning into his back.
Not fear.
Worry.
Worry about what the boy might become…
and what he might do.
He held onto that thought for a long moment, then finally got into the car and drove away.
They reached his assigned room—a small square space with white walls, a bed, a metal desk, and a cup of water already placed on the side table. The boy stepped inside quietly, scanning everything like he was memorizing the layout.
The doctor gave him a calm look.
"I'll step out for a moment. Settle in."
The door clicked shut.
And instantly—
the silence cracked.
A low chuckle slipped out of the boy's throat. At first small. Then louder. Then louder—until it spiraled into full laughter echoing around the tiny room. Not joyful; not playful. Unhinged. Sharp around the edges.
He stumbled back onto the bed, still laughing as tears streaked down his cheeks. His chest shook. His hands trembled. The laugh broke into choked breaths, then returned stronger, cracked and painful.
Then he sat up.
And in a flash—
He grabbed the cup of water and hurled it at the wall. It exploded against the surface, splashing everywhere. The sound snapped down the hallway like a gunshot.
He screamed—raw and loud—like everything he'd been holding in detonated at once.
The nurses and wardens sprinted toward the noise. They burst into the room—
—and froze.
Because the boy was standing calmly, back straight, expression cold and controlled… like nothing had happened at all.
Slowly, he turned his head toward them.
And smiled.
"I'm fine," he said softly. "I was just a little angry. No need to worry."
The nurses exchanged looks, unsure. The wardens stepped back. Everyone could still feel the leftover tension in the room, like the air was bruised.
The doctor pushed through them, eyes sharp—he had already read the report.
He didn't smile back.
"Your treatment starts tomorrow," he said simply.
The boy's smile twitched wider—almost polite.
"Okay."
The doctor nodded once, stepped out, and closed the door behind him.
This time, the hallway stayed quiet far longer than before.