"Hello, Wiktor. May I come in?" the psychologist probed after gently knocking on the door a few times. There was no need for her to ask for permission - the question was only a matter of courtesy - but it would be counterproductive to agitate the patient.

She heard no words, or sounds, of protest, and so she opened the one-way door to Wiktor’s chamber. It hadn’t changed much since the last time she saw him; it was as dusky as ever and it still reminded her of a mountain cabin, or maybe an old-fashioned bedroom of a retired film director, complete with an artificial fireplace and a movie projector setup. The windows overlooking the woods outside were heavily dimmed and, of course, human impact-resistant, as was required by the institution he was housed in. Shade-loving plants populated the room to keep its occupant company, while a water fountain tried its best to convey the impression of a dynamic, busy atmosphere.

Having been woken up from one of his weeks-long, dreamless rests, Wiktor wasn’t sleeping. He was lying propped up on the bed, connected to some life-support machine hidden from view in an adjacent room. Some video captured from the point of view of a cyclist passing through a metropolis at dusk - apparently a way to show him the richness of the world while alluding to the finity of man’s life, a state of mind antithetical to what he had experienced during his long, long years inside the device - was being displayed on a wall in front of him, but he didn’t seem to pay any attention to it. His mind was someplace else.

“Good to see you, Wiktor,” the psychologist said. “I hope you don’t mind me sitting down here for a moment.”

The visits used to give Wiktor bouts of severe anxiety, but his caretakers managed to ease him into them through music, which would play each time after the psychologist left, until he fell asleep again. He really enjoyed music; he'd missed it very, very much.

"You mentioned that you would like to pet a cat the last time I was here, do you remember?" the psychologist asked, having sat down sideways at the foot of Wiktor's bed, just like she did during her previous visits. She was looking down at the floor, at her carefully picked, bland moccasin slippers that she put on before knocking on the door; she did not want to trigger in him any flashback-induced panic attacks by drawing his attention to her gaze or her feet. "I talked to the guys and they agreed to arrange everything for you, but first they would need to be sure that you're ready; that you won't lose your cool. Do you understand?” she paused to imply that she was waiting for a response.

“...yes,” Wiktor replied, his voice coarse and nigh inaudible.

“Would you be willing to revisit your memories, then? It would help you remain composed during your flashbacks; and I could get you exactly the help you need - but I need to know the details first. I need to know what happened,” she pressed on.

“I know,” he looked towards the wall in front of him, at the footage of some East Asian, neon-lit city. “Okay.”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” the psychologist requested. There was no need for her to take notes, everything was being recorded anyway. “Tell me what you remember. Tell me what's inside your mind.”