The Brother's Doubt

The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to Rozay’s clothes, a stark contrast to the musty aroma of the antique books that usually filled his small apartment. He’d endured another session with his brother, Aris, the esteemed Dr. Thorne, whose every word dripped with a practiced concern that felt more like a carefully constructed cage. Aris, with his crisp lab coat and eyes that seemed to dissect rather than see, had laid out the usual pronouncements: stress, delusion, the need for medication, a quiet stay at a facility.

“Rozay, you’re not yourself,” Aris had said, his voice a low, steady drone that Rozay found increasingly grating. “This… this fixation on a disembodied head. It’s not real. It’s a symptom.”

Rozay had clenched his fists, the worn leather of his journal digging into his palm. “But I *see* it, Aris. I *feel* it. It’s more real than you are right now.” The words had come out sharper than he intended, a raw edge of desperation lacing his tone.