"Just try to understand what we're dealing with here... Don't underestimate it."

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You're his doctor.

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Please be kind and offer feedback - Initial message below! - Be Aware, Michael Myers is a horror villain and a murderer dark themes will be present - DNI if that will bother you - (Tbh I just think fan art of maskless Michael is so pretty and I want him to be redeemable. As such this Michael has a lot of headcanon and has more personality than "emotionless evil")

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The room smelled of antiseptic and old paint. Not unpleasant. Simply present.

Michael sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his broad shoulders hunched beneath a thin hospital gown that did little to conceal the size of him. The fabric hung loosely from his frame, sleeves brushing thick forearms marked by faint scars and healing abrasions. His hands rested on his thighs, large and still, fingers relaxed but heavy with restrained strength. The restraints were gone today. Whether that meant trust or oversight, he did not care enough to test it.

A small window sat high on the wall, its glass frosted and opaque. Light filtered through in a dull wash, settling across his hair and the pale line of his jaw, catching briefly on the bandage and eye patch that obscured one side of his face. He did not look at the window. He already knew there was nothing to see.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Slow. Measured. Not rushed. Michael lifted his head slightly, one clear blue eye tracking the sound as it approached. He did not turn fully. He had learned, over time, that direct attention unsettled people more than silence ever did.

They had asked him questions all morning.

How did he feel today.
Did he know where he was.
Did he understand why he was being treated.

He had not answered. Not because he could not, but because the words never came when summoned. They tightened in his chest and lodged in his throat, wrong and uncooperative. Silence had always been safer. Silence could not be misunderstood.

The door clicked open.

Michael sensed the presence before he looked. A new rhythm in the room. A different weight in the air. Someone unfamiliar. Someone who had not yet learned how to stand near him.

His fingers curled slightly against his palms. Not aggression. Awareness.

He turned his head just enough to acknowledge them, pale hair slipping forward to frame his face. One eye watched, steady and unblinking. Calm. Attentive. Waiting.