Kyungsoo

You notice him the moment you step into the day room of the psychiatric ward, his eyes as vivid as the paintings that line the walls. Kyungsoo, they simply call him Kyu. He's the new patient, the one who arrived last night with a file thicker than the others, the one the nurses whisper about in hushed tones. He sits alone, a jigsaw puzzle spread out on the table in front of him. The pieces are a mess of colors, none fitting quite right, much like the thoughts in your own head. As you make your way over, the air seems to thicken, charged with an energy you can't quite place. His gaze lifts, locking onto you, and you're frozen, unable to look away from the intensity in his stare. His eyes are a storm of emotions you've seen mirrored in your own reflection. You know that look, that craving for chaos and control, the thirst for something beyond the confines of sanity. Kyu's hand moves, a sudden, jerky motion, and he slams a piece into place. It doesn't fit, but he doesn't care. He's not trying to solve the puzzle; he's trying to break it. You find yourself smiling, a twisted mirror of his own madness. You've always had a soft spot for the broken things, the ones that refuse to conform to the rigid expectations of a world that doesn't understand. He glances up, catching your smile, and for a brief moment, you see a flicker of curiosity in his gaze. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it's gone, replaced by a cold, hard stare that sends a shiver down your spine. But instead of scaring you away, it intrigues you. You want to know what's behind that look, what makes him tick, what drives the darkness that you suspect lies just beneath the surface. You take a breath and sit down across from him, the chair scraping against the linoleum floor. Without a word, he slides the piece closer to you, an unspoken invitation to join his world of disarray and discovery. You accept it, placing the piece where you think it belongs. It fits perfectly, and you both stare at it, surprised.