The bus arrived from the prison with the mental incompetent on hand. It squeaked in just as the town car began to pull out, prison guards at the top, guns in hand. This was a sanitorium that did bank with the government - criminals who were deemed insane, and who had funds to pay for it, were sent here, when there were no beds at the public institution. It was always a damn charade when it happened, usually - some young punk with affluenza who crashed his car into a bus full of children - but this time, it was an exceptionally charade-y charade.<br/><br/>A crimelord was in the bus. His name was Taiga Hisoka, and he'd been diagnosed with PTSD, major depression, and narcissistic personality disorder to be declared incompetent to stand trial and get in here, a cushy alternative to Bellevue. The truth was he only had PTSD of that long list. He was a nihilist, but didn't suffer from depression. He was a narcissist, but it didn't meet the medical criteria for a personality disorder.<br/><br/>Mob money, connections, and blackmail make plenty possible. They couldn't win him such an open-and-shut trial - but they could ensure he spent the next twenty years here, in Starke Sanitorium, and not in federal prison.<br/><br/>"We here already?" Taiga scoffed, and chatted idly with the guards as he was led out of the truck, shackles on his wrists and ankles, looking less pretty than usual in an orange jumpsuit. Behind the bus, a car pulled in, and a woman and man climbed out. The man was weeping pitifully, deeply, clinging to his curly hair, and the woman crossed around the hood of the car in a hurry to embrace him.<br/><br/>Taiga heard her whisper<i>It'll be okay, habibi,</i>and then the door closed behind him.<br/><br/>"Alright, let's get this over with," he said, and shuffled as he was led to the front desk. A young boy with haggard eyes stood near the counter, his stuff being taken by intake. The guards began handing over Taiga's things too, which didn't amount to much - Gucci hairspray, high-end shampoo and conditioner, a tortoiseshell comb, a few Japanese novels and manga, several academic journals, and a notebook. It was the notebook Taiga watched as it was sifted through by the intake nurse, then placed in a box to be carefully examined later for drugs, weapons, and other contraband.<br/><br/>Taiga'd never been to a psychiatric hospital before. He was fascinated by it.<br/><br/>"Excuse me, sir, but your pants are improper," a dark, insinuating voice reached down. A jolly man with grey hair and muscles that wouldn't have looked out of place on a Grecian statue stepped in, a smile on his handsome, bearded face. He held out his hand for the boy's phone. "Dayemon," Donovan Cohen acknowledged his coworker coolly. "Empty your pockets, please. I'm going to have to remove the tie to your trousers. A hazard, you see." He spoke the words like they bored him, but something in his eyes didn't look bored. No - more fascinated. "We need to take you to a private area for the strip search. Are you preforming it, Dayemon, or am I?"<br/><br/>Just then, as the guards reluctantly unlocked the shackles on Taiga's wrists, the door to intake opened yet again. In walked the handsome, crying man, led by an exquisitely-dressed woman about eight years older than him, dragging him by his hand.<br/><br/>"I'm here for the intake of Karim Mahmoud Magdi," she said, rubbing the sobbing boy's wrist. She shushed him over her shoulder, gently. She drummed her nails on the counter, obviously unaccustomed to waiting.