Chapter Text
The mental hospital was no joke. The halls were always quiet in a way that felt deliberate, as if the walls themselves were listening. Everyone walked with purpose, faces set and professional, voices kept low. There was no room for humor here, no room for mistakes. Except, somehow, for Shade Maya.
Shade was the kind of patient no one wanted assigned to them. He treated the hospital like a stage and everyone else like unwilling actors in his personal performance. If there were rankings for worst patients, Shade would sit comfortably at the top—perhaps only rivaled by Smirnou Eudaemon, whose reputation alone made new employees uneasy. Compared to the nearby psych ward, the patients here were sharper, heavier, more difficult to ignore. Many newcomers didn’t last long. Some quit quietly. Others left mid-shift and never came back.
Van Verla knew all of this when he was assigned to Shade Maya.
Van was a nurse who carried himself calmly, almost gently, as if nothing could quite shake him. Shade, on the other hand, thrived on shaking people. The two were opposites in every sense of the word, and there was no doubt about it. Shade loved to torment Van’s mind, talking endlessly, jumping from subject to subject, spinning stories and questions until the air itself felt crowded. He made sure not to leave even a second of silence, as though quiet were something dangerous.
Unfortunately for Shade, Van was trained for this. He had learned how to listen without absorbing, how to stay present without being overwhelmed. He nodded at the right moments, responded when necessary, and let the rest roll past him. Shade’s tactics barely bothered him—though Van suspected that wasn’t the reaction Shade was hoping for.
Van honestly believed Shade talked the most whenever he was about to get his shot. Needles had a way of making even the loudest people uneasy. They made arms ache, delivering a dull, lingering pain along with the medicine. Shade didn’t like it. Then again, no one in the mental hospital did—unless they were a masochist, and that opened the door to a completely different set of problems.
On harder days, Lily Wilfred would assist Van. They had been friends since high school, long before hospital corridors and clinical routines became their lives. Lily had graduated before Van—she was a bit older, after all—and while Van was still finishing his last year of college, he had listened to stories about her achievements here. At the time, they filled him with excitement and a quiet, nervous anticipation. When he was finally accepted, standing in the same hospital she once described, those feelings came rushing back all over again.
Now, working beside her, Van felt steadier. The hospital was still serious. Shade was still impossible. But sometimes, having a familiar face nearby made the weight of it all just a little easier to carry.
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The mental hospital never truly slept.
Even in the early morning hours, when the sun hadn’t yet decided whether it wanted to rise, the building hummed with a low, persistent life. Lights flickered softly above long corridors, their glow reflecting off polished floors that smelled faintly of disinfectant and old coffee. Doors clicked open and shut with practiced rhythm. Somewhere far down the hall, a patient laughed once—sharp and sudden—before falling silent again.
Van Verla adjusted the badge clipped to his uniform as he stepped through the security checkpoint, nodding to the guard on duty. The man nodded back, eyes already drifting to the camera screens behind him. Van didn’t take it personally. No one lingered here longer than necessary.
This was his third week officially working the ward, and the weight of the place still pressed against his chest every time he walked in. Not panic—never panic—but awareness. The kind that reminded him where he was and why caution mattered.
The patients here weren’t fragile in the way people expected. They were intense, sharp-edged, unpredictable. This wasn’t the nearby psych ward with its shorter stays and gentler cases. This was where people were sent when things were deemed too complicated, too dangerous, or too unknown to handle elsewhere.
Van signed in, grabbed a clipboard, and scanned the morning assignments.
He already knew what he’d see.
Patient: Shade Maya.
Room: C-17.
Procedure: Injection—08:00.
Assigned Nurse: Van Verla.
He exhaled through his nose, a habit he’d developed recently. Not dread—never dread—but preparation.
Shade Maya was awake before Van ever reached the door.
“Morning, sunshine,” Shade called out as Van approached, his voice carrying easily through the corridor. “You’re late.”
Van checked his watch. “I’m right on time.”
Shade scoffed. “Time is subjective. Painfully so, in this place.”
Van unlocked the door and stepped inside. The room was simple: a bed bolted to the floor, a desk, a narrow window reinforced with thick glass. Shade sat cross-legged on the mattress, dark hair slightly unkempt, eyes sharp with interest. He looked far too alert for someone who had been institutionalized for as long as he had.
“You know,” Shade continued, leaning back on his hands, “most nurses knock. It’s a courtesy thing.”
“I did knock,” Van replied calmly as he set the clipboard down. “You just started talking before I could open the door.”
Shade smiled. It was the kind of smile that looked like it knew something you didn’t—and enjoyed that fact far too much.
“That’s because I knew it was you,” he said. “Your footsteps are different.”
Van raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”
“Careful,” Shade said thoughtfully. “Measured. Like you’re always counting how close you are to something dangerous.”
Van ignored the comment and began preparing the syringe. Shade’s eyes followed every movement, though he continued talking as if the needle didn’t exist.
“You ever wonder why they put you with me?” Shade asked. “I mean really wonder, not that surface-level ‘it’s my job’ answer.”
Van glanced at him briefly. “No.”
“That’s a lie.”
“No,” Van corrected, “it’s a boundary.”
Shade laughed, loud and unrestrained, the sound bouncing off the walls. “See? That’s why I like you. Everyone else tries to play therapist. You just… exist.”
Van stepped closer, signaling for Shade to roll up his sleeve. Shade did so with exaggerated reluctance, still talking.
“Did you know Nurse Halvorsen quit yesterday?” Shade said. “Didn’t even finish his shift.”
Van paused for a fraction of a second. “I heard.”
“Mm. Crying in the stairwell,” Shade added casually. “Kept saying he ‘couldn’t do this anymore.’”
Van cleaned the injection site. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop.”
Shade smirked. “Then they shouldn’t whisper.”
The needle went in smoothly. Shade tensed despite himself, jaw tightening as the medicine was administered. His words faltered for just a moment—barely noticeable—but Van caught it.
“There,” Van said as he withdrew the needle. “All done.”
Shade exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. “You distract me on purpose.”
Van disposed of the syringe properly. “You distract yourself.”
“Hate needles,” Shade muttered, flexing his arm. “Feels like being betrayed by something small.”
Van didn’t respond. He noted the dosage, checked Shade’s vitals, and made sure there were no immediate reactions. Shade watched him the entire time, expression unusually quiet.
“You ever get tired of listening?” Shade asked suddenly.
Van looked up. “It’s part of the job.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Van considered the question, then answered honestly. “Sometimes. But not today.”
Shade studied him, then nodded once, as if filing the answer away for later use.
After securing the clipboard, Van headed for the door. Shade’s voice followed him.
“Same time tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Shade said. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”
Van left without replying.
The hallway felt louder afterward, though nothing had changed. Van walked toward the nurses’ station, rolling tension out of his shoulders. Shade always did that—left a residue behind, like static in the air.
“Hey,” a familiar voice called.
Lily Wilfred leaned against the counter, sipping from a paper cup. Her hair was pulled back neatly, eyes alert but warm. She smiled when she saw him.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
“Normal,” Van said.
“That’s never a good sign with him.”
Van smiled faintly. “He talked. I listened. No one screamed.”
“Successful morning, then.”
They fell into step together as they walked down the hall. Lily’s presence was grounding in a way Van hadn’t realized he needed until she was there. She’d always been like that—even in high school, when exams and college applications loomed over them like threats.
“You’re getting better at this,” Lily said. “I can tell.”
Van glanced at her. “At being assigned the worst patient in the ward?”
“At not letting it eat you alive.”
Van shrugged. “I had a good example.”
Lily snorted. “You mean when I complained nonstop during my first year?”
“Exactly.”
They shared a quiet laugh. It felt strange, laughing here—but not wrong.
Later that day, Van found himself back in the break room, staring at a vending machine without really seeing it. The hospital was relentless in its pacing. One task bled into another, hours slipping away unnoticed.
“You look like you’re dissociating,” Lily said, appearing beside him again.
“Just thinking,” Van replied.
“Dangerous habit.”
Van smirked. “Shade says something similar.”
Lily stiffened slightly. “He says a lot of things.”
“Yeah,” Van agreed. “He does.”
There was a pause.
“Be careful with him,” Lily added quietly. “He’s… perceptive. More than most.”
Van nodded. “I know.”
What he didn’t say was that part of him was intrigued. Not by Shade’s condition or his reputation, but by the strange clarity behind his eyes. Shade wasn’t lost in his own world. If anything, he seemed too aware of this one.
That night, long after his shift ended, Van lay awake in his apartment, staring at the ceiling. Shade’s voice echoed faintly in his mind—not the words, but the tone. Curious. Testing.
Same time tomorrow?
Van closed his eyes.
Tomorrow would come whether he was ready or not.
And somewhere behind reinforced glass and locked doors, Shade Maya would be waiting.