Schiller stood by the door with the phone in hand. Behind him, the hands on the clock kept turning. As the second hand clicked away, the sky gradually darkened. The last trace of sunset sank beneath the horizon, and after finishing his final call, Schiller walked over to turn on the light.
Just then, there came a knock at the door—three very standard light taps, carrying a muted air that perfectly matched the night that had just fallen.
After switching on the light, Schiller turned and walked back without looking at Grant Ward as he pushed the door open and entered. He returned behind his desk, lightly tapped its surface with a finger, and motioned for Grant to sit across from him.
Grant did sit down, just rather far away. Schiller stared at him and asked, "Why are you sitting so far away too?"
Grant said nothing. Schiller immediately knew it was the fault of one of his other personalities again. He sighed, pulled out a medical record from the shelf, and said, "Let's see... depression, along with some compulsive behavior. Last time, you said you refused to take medication. If nothing unexpected happened, it should have gotten worse."
Grant did not answer at all. Somewhat helplessly, Schiller said, "Do you know why, after all these years, you're still only an ordinary agent? I'm not asking you to learn how to flatter people, but after I speak, shouldn't you at least give some kind of response?"
Grant gave an "Mm," then fell silent again. Schiller simply closed the medical record and put it away. Honestly, psychologists did not fear patients with complicated symptoms, nor did they fear patients who made unreasonable trouble. What they feared most was patients who were mute.
"If the Hydra member who called earlier had been