Rowan Hale... Patient Code 127-G7I4."
The name lingered in the air like a quiet verdict, spoken in a low, composed voice from behind the mahogany desk of Staff Room 201. Dr. Noah Merin didn't look up as he addressed the young secretary. His tone was calm—clinical, even—but there was a distinct gravity beneath it, as though the name itself weighed something.
"Retrieve his file, Luna. I want everything—complete transfer to my desk. Full psychiatric history, court transcripts, prior institutional records, and all prescriptions administered during legal confinement. No delays."
The secretary nodded, her heels tapping a rhythmic farewell as she exited down the quiet corridor of Merin Private Asylum &Hospital, Halifax Branch. The sound of her footsteps echoed off sterile walls—sharp, methodical—until silence returned, as it always did here, like a second skin.
---
With a soft mechanical hum, the digital LED screen stretched across the far wall came to life, flooding the staff room with a cold, flickering light. Channel after channel, site after site—it was everywhere. The same name. The same horror.
"Brutal Death of Soren Solace."
"The Killer Dancer."
"Pre-Meditated Murder on Stage: Rowan Hale Under Trial."
It wasn't just news—it was a wildfire. Headlines screamed. Protesters roared. Viral hashtags, hate campaigns, death threats. Across Canada—and far beyond its borders—the world had chosen its villain.
Rowan Hale.
Crowds flooded the streets with placards and pitchforks, demanding life imprisonment—demanding blood. His family, once held in high esteem, now buried beneath lawsuits, personal threats, and public shame. Everywhere you turned, there was chaos. There was grief. And there was rage.
Speculation ran rampant:
"That he had planned it. That he wasn't insane, just bitter."
"That he had snapped out of jealousy—unable to accept defeat at the hands of his partner and lover."
"That this wasn't madness, but malice."
"That the fall of a prodigy was nothing more than the reveal of a monster beneath the glitter."
Slurs and curses followed his name like shadows:
"Coward."
"Liar."
"Psycho."
"Murderer."
From his desk, Dr. Noah Merin slowly scrolled through the chaos. And then, in a voice that echoed against the quiet walls, he read aloud one of the headlines.
"During a live couple's performance in the World Dance Finals, competitor Rowan Hale's custom-designed heels—containing a hidden, spring-loaded blade—were triggered mid-spin, severing the neck of partner Soren Solace. The decapitation occurred in front of a live international audience."
The screen dimmed again, but the silence it left behind was even louder.
---
"He's already been declared guilty before the trial's even begun…"
A low, dry chuckle escaped Noah's lips—one not of amusement, but something colder. A quiet disdain, edged with curiosity.
"So the infamous psycho killer is under our roof."
He rose from the polished black leather sofa, the movement unhurried, almost meditative. The soft whisper of expensive fabric followed his frame as he straightened to his full height. His office, like the man himself, was elegant and exacting—furnished with quiet luxury, tastefully lit, and infused with the faint scent of eucalyptus. Every surface gleamed. Every detail spoke of care.
This wasn't just any facility. It was Merin Private Asylum & Hospital, one of the most elite centers for psychiatric and rehabilitative care in Canada. Founded decades ago, the Merin family had long stood at the intersection of medicine and legacy—a dynasty of doctors, specialists, and therapists woven into the country's healthcare foundation.
The main strength of the empire? Mental health care.
With several branches spread across the country, the two core asylums were entrusted to the family's sons—Noah and his younger brother, Ansel Merin. At the helm stood the matriarch, Dr. Helena Merin—a formidable German psychiatrist whose vision turned the Merin name into a standard of trust—and her husband, Dr. Eli Merin, deputy director and surgeon.
This Halifax branch was Noah's domain.
And now, so was Rowan Hale.
Noah Merin, still in his late twenties, was already a name of renown—an award-winning psychiatrist with a reputation for grace under fire. His demeanor was clinical, calm, and composed… but there was something quietly spectral about him too. Ethereal, if you looked long enough.
With silver-white hair inherited from his mother and eyes the color of a winter ocean—gray, rimmed faintly with violet—he was striking in a way that unsettled people without understanding why. A face that belonged in dreams. A voice that could either soothe or silence.
He stood 6'5", his tall frame often clad in dark, clean-cut suits, his hair tied back in a loose, elegant wolfcut ponytail—though he rarely minded when it fell messily around his face.
There was something unspoken in the way he carried himself.
Not pride. Not arrogance. But... distance.
As if part of him was always in another room.
Listening. Watching. Waiting.
---
Noah's eyes scanned the layers of paper and digital screens before him. The day's desk had transformed into a mosaic of responsibility—freshly printed case files, folded pamphlets showcasing the hospital's latest programs, press releases from medical journals, and research papers authored by Merin staff. Several bore his own name.
Among them sat marketing sheets for the newly launched hospital app and outreach programs by affiliated mental health NGOs—each poster bearing the signature crest of the Merin Asylum & Hospital. At his elbow, a soft stack of aging medical textbooks leaned precariously beside glossy advertisements declaring: "Compassion is Cure. Healing is a Right."
The adjoining table, just beyond reach, was buried under months of compiled data—clinical case studies, official correspondence, therapy session records. Behind him, the left wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, every compartment meticulously labeled and filled with critical patient files. Names. Dates. Tragedies waiting to be understood.
The room was cool, untouched by the chaos of the world outside. The only sounds were soft—the quiet scratch of pen on paper, the occasional shuffle of a page turning, fluttering like moth wings. Time moved slowly here. Quiet was sacred.
Noah adjusted his silver-rimmed glasses and pulled his laptop closer, fingers already dancing across the keyboard. Hospital affairs needed attending—staffing charts, policy reviews, grant proposals. Normally, he didn't handle cases directly anymore. His position had shifted to administration and oversight.
But not this time.
Rowan Hale had arrived under special transfer. Directly from the Court. A rare, tightly watched case—hand-delivered to the care of the eldest Merin.
When the backlog of hospital duties was cleared, Noah allowed himself to pause—just long enough to satisfy his curiosity. He opened a secure browser window and typed in the name.
Rowan Hale.
Immediately, digital echoes of the young man's life poured onto the screen—photos, interviews, dance performances in crisp stage lighting, journal entries shared with fans. A glimpse of grace, ambition, and something else: a hunger for beauty, chased by shadows.
A dancer who once held the world's gaze.
Now, its hatred.
The sound of approaching heels broke the silence. Luna stepped in, her arms burdened with thick stacks of documents. Her expression remained composed, as always, but there was a tension in the set of her jaw. She placed the files gently on the table near him, guiding his attention with a light gesture.
"These are the court documents, treatment records from previous facilities, and all medication logs used during trial detention," she said smoothly. "The criminal psychologist's report is clipped in red. The initial asylum assessment is on top."
"Thank you, Luna," Noah murmured.
With a soft nod, she turned and exited, the door whispering shut behind her.
Noah leaned forward and pulled the primary case file closer. The thick folder opened with a muted crack. His eyes skimmed over the top line, printed in bold black ink:
Patient Code: 127G7I4
Name: Rowan Hale
Age: 23
Condition: To Be Assessed. Suspected Psychogenic Amnesia. Hallucinatory Episodes. Post-Traumatic Stress.
He exhaled quietly, the tips of his fingers resting lightly on the edges of the page.
And then, he began to read.
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