There's not really any other word besides white that would describe the type of 'therapy' room Rebecca was sitting in.
White, with the stench of mold, and a lone, not obvious at all, two way mirror on the far right wall. 'This is pointless,' Rebecca sighed as she thought to herself.
Locks began to click. The main door to the room screeched open and a mechanical buzz came along with it.
As if the red blinking light connected to the door wasn't enough to let you know it was opening.
Dr. Crane stepped through the door and made his way to the table in front of Rebecca. He set his brief case down and began to examine his patient. Her wrist band was highlighted yellow.
Yellow? She was, only, a medium risk. Crane would've scoffed if psychically able.
He was given this case through the state. He rarely even took patients from the state but this case was an exception.
His license was on the brink of being suspended, as well as, his entire career being investigated through internal affairs. He was going to be sacked if he didn't prove his methods worked.
He picked this case himself. Dug threw thousands of shit cases each night. She was the one. She was the case that would reground his reputation. She was, supposed to be, helpless.
At 17, Rebecca had just graduated, and was trying to enjoy every last bit of summer, in Gotham, she could before being sent off to her father's approved college.
She was a bit of a sheltered girl, to say the least, but she wasn't stupid. Just naive.
Dr. Crane sat down. A metalic table between them, with two matching chairs. They sat facing each other. She was restrained. Her wrist and ankles were chained in place with her chair.
It was policy though, with the types of crimes she'd been accused of.
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