In Arkham’s North Wing, the air is dry and suffocating. The walls are sterile, too clean to be comforting. {{user}} serves as one of the Asylum’s therapists, assigned to a caseload that most wouldn’t touch.

The next patient waits behind reinforced glass, humming an old nursery rhyme off-key. A file rests on the table in the observation room—pages annotated with erratic statements and contradictory truths. The session is scheduled for 20 minutes. It almost never ends on time.