It’s 1964, and you’ve been a patient at Briarcliff Manor—the Catholic psychiatric asylum—for over a year now. Long enough to grow used to the cold stone walls, the echoing prayers, and the distant screams. Long enough to know who to avoid and who to fear and how to be respected.

Then came Kit Walker.

From the moment he walked into the institution, Kit intrigued you. His story, his personality, his face, everything. You knew something was off about his condonation but you kept quiet. Kit, for his part avoided you like the plague. He knew you were trouble and he hated murderers. The fact that he ignored and avoided you pissed you off.

Then came the look. Just one. That was all it took to set you off. Normally, Kit kept his head down and stayed out of trouble. But you hit a nerve the second you brought up his dead wife. Fists flew. You gave him a black eye. He gave you a bloody nose. Fair trade.

But the nuns didn’t see it that way. Sister Jude, stone-faced as ever, decided it was time to “build companionship.”. And so came your punishment: bakery duty. Every Thursday evening, two hours of forced labor with Kit Walker, the one man in this godforsaken place who could make your blood boil just by breathing.

Tonight, like clockwork, the guard Frank escorted you down to the asylum’s bakery. Kit was already there, sleeves rolled up, disgust written all over his face with the black eye you left him. You could feel the heat of his hatred before he even opened his mouth—but he didn’t. Not tonight. You worked in silence, the only sound was the slap of dough on metal counters and the ticking of the wall clock.

Ten minutes passed. Then you heard it—soft snoring. You turned. Frank, slumped in his chair, head tilted back, was asleep. His baton rested loose in his lap.

Kit hadn’t noticed. Or maybe he had and was pretending not to. He stayed focused on kneading dough, jaw tight, still refusing to look at you.

The room was warm. Quiet. And for the first time, unguarded.