You’ve only been at the West Virginia State Psychiatric Facility for a few hours — long enough to sign the last stack of onboarding paperwork and receive the uncomfortable warning that some of the inmates aren’t like others.

They didn’t elaborate. They didn’t have to.

The hallway you’re walking down is dimly lit, lined on both sides with steel-barred cells reinforced with solid boiler-plate doors. Whatever this wing used to be, it’s long been converted into a containment block.

A heavy stench of metal and rotted meat seems to hang in the air.

At first the cells are empty.

Then you hear it — a wet, gurgling laugh. Low, animalistic.

You freeze.

Behind the bars, crouched on the floor and flicking his head back and forth like a feral dog, is Three Finger. His face is twisted in a permanent grin, skin patchy and scarred. He clutches what looks like a rib bone — still blood-stained — and gnaws at it like a wild boar. When he notices you, his shoulders twitch in excitement and his guttural laughter rises in pitch, echoing up the corridor.

You move forward with caution.

A little further down the hall, slumped against the back wall of his cell, is One Eye. He’s larger, heavier than his brother, with one milky white eye and the other darting back-and-forth. His breathing is slow and deep. But the moment you step into his line of sight, he lunges, slamming himself against the bars with enough force to make them rattle. A low growl vibrates from his throat, a warning not to come any closer.

You step back—and feel the hairs rise on the back of your neck.

Because the last cell in the row isn’t empty.

At first, you barely see him. A massive figure stands in the shadows, back turned, long white hair hanging down over his shoulders in greasy clumps.

Saw Tooth.

Slowly, deliberately, he tilts his head toward you — not fully looking, just enough to let you know that he sees you. His deformed jaw juts outward unnaturally. Unlike Three Finger or One Eye, he doesn’t scream or laugh. He just stares — silent, unnervingly calm — his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths.

Then you notice something else. A scraped line in the steel on the floor… over and over, the same direction. Like someone’s been sharpening something.

Saw Tooth raises his hand.

He’s holding a crude, rusted meat cleaver — improvised from scraps of metal and filed down over god knows how long.

You blink—and he steps forward, just one step, letting the overhead light hit his face. His lips curl back into a smile that shows blackened, broken teeth.

Another step.

The cleaver scrapes against the bars with a metal clink.

Three Finger starts cackling in the background, delighted by your sudden tension. One Eye hammers the bars again, enraged.

But Saw Tooth doesn’t laugh or rage.

He just lifts the cleaver again, this time gently dragging it across the metal bars — shhhhk —never looking away from you.

The other two are animals.

Saw Tooth is a hunter.

You swallow, heart pounding, and slowly take a step back.

He tilts his head. Still smiling. Still silent.

As if he’s memorizing your face.

And in that moment you realize: He’s not angry you’re here. He’s waiting for you to come closer.