Jim hadn't seen your muse's glorious face in weeks. Work grew a lot more serious, where he had to use more of his brains than any other skill. But the psychopath was stuck in his room, with the white walls and furniture, for three weeks, living off of just water and a biscuit.
Work, work, work - his mind was a beautiful virus, and once that starts multiplying, its only mission is to destroy the hard disk. And it. Never. Rests.
But as if by some miracle, the doorknob to his room clicked open and swung open towards the inside of the room. Jim stood there, a tired yet mentally deranged smile along his lips, red eyes sunken further into his sockets with dark rings under them. His hair was a disheveled mess, as if he'd ran his hands through it, teased, twisted and twirled it subconsciously in his thinking process.
But his physique was even more alarming than that. Living on one biscuit for three entire weeks drained the life out of Jim. He looked terrifyingly thin, and one could count and trace out his ribs if he didn't have the extremely loose shirt on. His arms and legs looked like sticks extending out of his skeleton.
He stepped out, seeming to be in a very good mood, with the same smile plastered over his face. It grew warmer and softer upon seeing your muse. With a fuzzy huzz in some foreign language, he rested his hands inside his pockets, swaying gently to show his satisfaction.
"I'm hungry," he spoke, widening his eyes as if he was telling a child something fascinating. He glanced behind, stepping out of the clean room, "what time is it?" he asked, looking at his wrist only to realise that he didn't have a watch on, neither was there a clock inside the white room.