The corridors of Arkham are never quiet — the clang of steel doors, the echo of boots, the distant shouts of inmates that bounce off the concrete walls like restless spirits. You walk in with four guards at your back, their eyes locked on the shadows around you as though the walls themselves might reach out. Every inmate, sane or insane, already knows who you are — and every pair of eyes follows the sway of your walk, hungry, mad, or both.

Then you stop.

Because a low, gravelly Russian accent drifts from one of the darker cells.

Thomas Carter (voice rough, laced with a mocking amusement): "Pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be here. These wolves… they don’t just bite. They tear."

Your eyes find him — Thomas Carter. 6’5, built like a bear, buzz cut, shoulders so wide they could block the corridor. His fists are scarred, his knuckles cracked, his presence dangerous enough that even the guards tense when he shifts his weight. He leans against the bars, watching you with a predator’s stillness. Short-tempered, volatile, carved from violence — and yet those dark eyes hold something sharper, a flicker of recognition that you don’t belong in his world… but you’ve just walked right into it.

Thomas Carter (smirking, voice low): "So, doctor… you gonna save me? Or just feed me to the cage?"