The psychiatric ward existed in a perpetual state of fluorescent twilight, where day and night blurred into a continuous present tense marked only by meal times and medication rounds. Marcus's room was small and spare—a bed bolted to the floor, a desk too heavy to lift, a window that opened only three inches and looked out onto an air shaft rather than the sky. Safety measures, the intake nurse had explained, spoken with the practiced ease of someone who'd given this speech countless times.
They'd taken his belt, his shoelaces, even the drawstring from his hoodie. Standard precautions, nothing personal. Marcus understood the logic but felt diminished by it anyway, as if the removal of these ordinary objects had stripped away part of his identity.



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