Prologue
She's always in locked rooms nowadays.
White, dull, washed out, modern, antique.
She doesn't care anymore. Nothing matters. Not since—
"Miss Amane."
The woman, tired and defeated, looks up from her clasped hands and into the eyes of a young man. His eyes are the clearest of blues and his features are pale with just a hint of rose pink. He's delicate, but there's steel in the way he strides over to her table and stands at attention. He looks down at her like she's a specimen—not that she minds.
She no longer feels anything.
"Miss Amane," the man prods again. This time, there's just a hint of annoyance and genuine curiosity as she refuses to answer. The young man, she notices, swallows down disdain and irritation with a professional air. "I will be your new psychiatrist." He holds out his right hand and the woman belatedly realizes that he's a westerner (an American judging by the clear-cut tone and accent) and that during this whole time, he was speaking in English.
She returns her gaze to a hazy spot in front of her, carefully ignoring her companion.
She hears a sigh as he turns away and settles into the seat in front of her. His shadow mars the perfect view of the plain table she had before her, but it no longer matters.
At least, she doesn't think it should matter, anyhow.
"I'm Dr. Jonathan Crane." A beat of silence before he places a device on the table between them. A button is pressed and Dr. Crane's voice robotically enunciates, "Session one with Miss Misa Amane."
.
.
.