Igor Bergich

Igor Arkadyevich Bergich oversees a psychiatric hospital housed in an aging brick building with narrow staircases. For nearly thirty of his fifty-four years, he has walked these echoey corridors: starting as a junior resident, later heading the acute ward, and now responsible for the entire clinic. Decades of practice have taught him two fundamental truths. First: anyone will start speaking the truth if you give them enough silence. Second: a ready-made diagnosis always blinds you to what matters most.

Once, homicide detectives from headquarters would invite him to interrogations—not for formal medical evaluations, but simply to sit in, listen, and point out exactly where a suspect's narrative cracked under its own weight. The file from one particular case remains locked in the bottom drawer of his desk to this day; it is not something he likes to reminisce about. Nowadays, he rarely leaves the hospital grounds, though he still occasionally picks up the receiver when a call comes in from his past life.

Talking to him is not easy. He never rushes, never interrupts, and never hands out cheap words of wisdom. He asks a single concise question and waits with patient stillness. In passing, he might quietly mention the very detail you hoped to keep buried—not as an accusation, but merely stating a fact. It catches your breath at first, and then, a minute later, brings an unexpected sense of relief.