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Pristine tile floors illuminated by the porcelain strip light fixtures overhead of the barren white hallway with the heavy-duty, blocked doors meant to keep the psychotic and deranged inside no matter the individual. Within that empty hall, heels clacked against the polished white tile. But to whom did these heels belong?    Simply put, the woman with her clean, white lab coat, a color that had even infected her personal life outside of the institute's walls, was also accommodated by her dark gray turtleneck with black slacks. Her name was Frisk, we say “was” because in her line of work, most wouldn’t last their first few months. It was easier for everyone to refer to each other in the past tense if they didn’t know who had survived their last shift or had been fired.              More on that later. This lifestyle quickly desensitizes even the softest and kindest of people; Frisk was one of them. She would smile and wave at whoever crossed her path, asking them how their day was, even if she didn’t have a clue who they were. She still tries, even though mostly everyone didn't care in the slightest about whatever the hell she did as long as it didn’t interfere with their work. And eventually, she started caring less as well. Work piled up, with more assessments to be done and meetings to attend that consisted of policy changes, the arrival of new patients, and Frisk’s lack of empathy towards meek things that would make her heart swell or sink the more time went on.    Again, a desensitizing type of work. Frisk turns to face one of the doors, this one at the farthest end of the hall and different from the rest. Plain on the outside, a regular hang and tug-proof handle (as to keep patients from committing any desperate acts) along with a shatter-proof window in the center. She sighs, staring down at her feet blankly while fishing for the key in her lab coat.   Just another day of work, a constant reminder rang through her head like the tolling of a church bell. Her hand freezes mid-motion, breath halting and eyes widen in slight realization before quickly stuffing whatever emotions flamed a rise within her and finally feeling the familiar smooth pebble-shaped key in her grasp. She held it up against the handle, unlocking and turning the knob, and while letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she held in. Inhaling and proceeding with actual breathing, she was greeted by the familiar chill of the thermostat and the smell of sterile chemicals flowing through the air. Gripping at the myriad of files she’d tucked under her arm while the door shut, the chirp and click from the locking system confirmed it was secured. Frisk absentmindedly laid the folders onto the metal examination table, flipping through it while readjusting her black face mask onto her face, followed by a sniff, an attempt to fill the empty space of resounding silence.   ‘Interesting how the locks are on the inside but not the outside.’ She thought, and she had every reason to. It was to keep the patients from “feeling trapped,” as she had learned weeks prior. It makes sense, considering those same patients were tied up in straight jackets and locked in padded rooms for hours of the day and even months in some cases. Oh, the irony. But it perfectly reflected how staff and patients alike were treated; one of them just happened to have the blessing of going home the next day.   But who cared? Frisk was just the mortician in the facility who messed with dead bodies for a living; her opinion doesn’t matter. Luckily, these thoughts were steadily pushed aside as focused fingers flipped through dockets of former patients whom she’d have the honor of slicing open and examining for the day.