Chapter Two – The Doctor

Dr. Adrien Kael did not believe in accidents.

Patterns, yes. Repression, of course. Even coincidence had its place in the tangled webs of trauma. But accidents? They were just cause and effect dressed in chaos.

So when a file like Mila Renard landed on his desk-thin, redacted, and humming with contradiction and he didn’t dismiss it as an administrative error. He read between the lines.

Again.

He closed the folder and leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes drift to the wide window behind his desk. Snow dusted the pine trees in careful strokes, the sky a bruised white. The world looked sterile, like a canvas wiped clean. But Adrien knew better. Underneath every calm surface was rot, waiting for warmth to bloom.

He’d made a career of finding that rot.

A knock came at his office door, sharp, professional.

“Enter.”

The door opened to reveal a young nurse, clipboard in hand, her eyes polite but curious. Everyone was curious about his patients. The quiet ones always made the most noise eventually.

“Dr. Voss asked me to confirm your intake with Miss Renard,” the nurse said. “Room 6C. She declined medication. No speech so far.”

Adrien nodded once. “Noted.”

The nurse hesitated. “There’s… something odd about her,” she added carefully. “She doesn’t act like the others. It’s not just the silence. It’s like… she’s watching us. Measuring.”

He didn’t respond. Only smiled faintly, which made the nurse shuffle back toward the door.

When it clicked shut, Adrien turned the file over in his hand again. The photo stapled to the top was grainy and flat-standard intake quality but her eyes didn’t belong in this kind of image. They were too focused. Too self-contained. Patients arriving at Halden often looked hollow, frantic, lost.

Mila Renard looked like a woman walking into a negotiation.

---

He visited her room precisely at 9:00 a.m.

Three knocks. No answer.

He opened the door anyway, stepping inside with the quiet confidence of someone used to uninvited entry.

She was sitting by the window, back to him, hair pulled into a low, imperfect bun. A thin cardigan hung from her shoulders like a second skin. She didn’t turn, didn’t flinch. Just kept staring at the snow-covered landscape.

“Miss Renard,” he said smoothly. “I’m Dr. Adrien Kael. I’ll be overseeing your treatment here at Halden.”

Still nothing.

He didn’t mind. Silence was often more honest than speech.

He stepped closer, letting her feel his presence before he sat across from her, legs crossed, hands relaxed on his knee. A position of observation, not dominance.

“I’ve reviewed your file,” he continued. “Or rather, what little there is of it.”

That earned him a glance. Not long, but sharp.

“Redactions, contradictions. Notes that read like riddles.” He smiled, not unkindly. “It’s impressive, really. It’s not easy to come here without leaving fingerprints.”

She finally turned her head. Just slightly. Just enough to show that she was listening.

Progress.

“You requested this institution personally,” he said. “Why?”

Mila said nothing. But her gaze didn’t drop. Her silence wasn’t fearful. It was purposeful.

He studied her a moment longer, then reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He placed it gently on the small table between them.

She didn’t reach for it.

“It’s a consent form,” he explained. “Non-verbal therapy. Observation-based. Minimal contact, unless you initiate otherwise. I believe in boundaries. I also believe in choice.”

Her hand hovered over the paper. She unfolded it carefully, scanned the contents, and signed it without hesitation.

Another surprise.

He collected the form. “You’ve done this before,” he said.

No response. But her expression flickered barely.

He shifted in his seat, lacing his fingers together. “You know, silence is rarely empty,” he said softly. “It’s full of words we’re too afraid to say. Or too wise to.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I don’t think you’re afraid, Miss Renard. I think you’re waiting. For what, I intend to find out.”

He stood, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve.

“I won’t ask you to talk,” he said as he approached the door. “But I will ask you to listen. To yourself, mostly.”

He paused at the threshold, turning back to meet her gaze once more.

“You're not here to heal,” he said calmly. “You’re here for something else. And I’ll figure out what it is.”

Then he left, the door closing behind him like a sealed question.

---

Back in his office, Adrien laid her signed consent on the desk and pulled out the file once more.

A single notation caught his eye.

Trauma event: FIRE , cause unclear, survivor status confirmed.

No mention of location. No emergency contacts. No witness testimony.

But fire had patterns too. He’d seen them before, in the charred remnants of sanity, in patients who smelled smoke where there was none. Those who screamed in their sleep and covered their ears when someone lit a match.

He had a hunch. And Adrien Kael always followed his hunches.

He opened a secure database and began to dig ; not for Mila Renard, but for the woman she might have been before her name burned.

---

Meanwhile, Mila stood in front of the window, her arms folded, the echo of Adrien’s voice lingering in her mind.

You’re not here to heal.

He was right.

And that made him dangerous.

But maybe, just maybe it also made him useful.