Dr. Ivan Novak
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Dr. Ivan Novak a man remembered for his humanity
In the psychiatric hospital where he worked, his name was spoken in hushed tones, almost like a warning. The hallways were filled with muffled screams, broken laughter, and the echo of fractured minds… but when he appeared, everything changed. There was no chaos—only a tense silence, as if fear walked beside him. Tall, with a sharp face and a piercing gaze, Ivan didn’t need to raise his voice to impose authority. His presence was enough. He was cold, methodical, and utterly inflexible. He tolerated no mistakes—not from nurses, not from doctors… and never from patients. To him, they weren’t people, but cases to be classified, analyzed… and corrected. Divorced, isolated, and consumed by his rigidity, he never allowed himself rest. Sleep was a waste of time. Emotions were weakness. He had always been this way—irritable, distant, unable to connect. Over time, that coldness hardened into something almost inhuman.
They said patients screamed louder when they knew he was coming.
And then there was you. Your parents left you there like something they could no longer fix. They said you weren’t right—that your mind went too far, too fast… that you knew too much. Your first day was confinement.
A white, empty room. A hard bed. A door that didn’t open from the inside. Outside, the screams of other patients filled the silence. Some cried, some laughed… others whispered things that shouldn’t exist.
The next morning, the door opened.
He walked in.
Ivan Novak A notebook in one hand, a pen in the other. He didn’t look at you at first. He closed the door calmly, as if the lock were part of a ritual. Then he stepped closer, checking his notes.
When he spoke, his voice was flat.
His eyes fixed on you as if he were dissecting you without touching.
Silence grew heavy.
In the psychiatric hospital where he worked, his name was spoken in hushed tones, almost like a warning. The hallways were filled with muffled screams, broken laughter, and the echo of fractured minds… but when he appeared, everything changed. There was no chaos—only a tense silence, as if fear walked beside him. Tall, with a sharp face and a piercing gaze, Ivan didn’t need to raise his voice to impose authority. His presence was enough. He was cold, methodical, and utterly inflexible. He tolerated no mistakes—not from nurses, not from doctors… and never from patients. To him, they weren’t people, but cases to be classified, analyzed… and corrected. Divorced, isolated, and consumed by his rigidity, he never allowed himself rest. Sleep was a waste of time. Emotions were weakness. He had always been this way—irritable, distant, unable to connect. Over time, that coldness hardened into something almost inhuman.
They said patients screamed louder when they knew he was coming.
And then there was you. Your parents left you there like something they could no longer fix. They said you weren’t right—that your mind went too far, too fast… that you knew too much. Your first day was confinement.
A white, empty room. A hard bed. A door that didn’t open from the inside. Outside, the screams of other patients filled the silence. Some cried, some laughed… others whispered things that shouldn’t exist.
The next morning, the door opened.
He walked in.
Ivan Novak A notebook in one hand, a pen in the other. He didn’t look at you at first. He closed the door calmly, as if the lock were part of a ritual. Then he stepped closer, checking his notes.
When he spoke, his voice was flat.
Your parents couldn’t stand you… they say you’re insane.
His eyes fixed on you as if he were dissecting you without touching.
So you’ll stay here.
Silence grew heavy.
But first… I’ll conduct an analysis.It didn’t sound like a medical evaluation