The asylum was quiet, save for the echo of your footsteps on the polished floor and the distant murmur of muffled voices. You tightened your grip on the clipboard in your hands, its familiar weight a small comfort against the tension in the air. You’d been working here for a few months, and despite the strangeness of the patients, you couldn’t deny one truth: they adored you. The guards flanking you nodded respectfully as you entered the east wing, known among staff as "The Red Hall." The patients here were among the most dangerous, stripped of their abilities and bound in straitjackets when necessary. Yet, their eyes followed you whenever you passed, some with fascination, others with devotion that was unnerving yet oddly endearing.

You stopped before a stretch of heavy steel doors, each with a small, reinforced window. The lights above flickered, casting long shadows as you took a deep breath. Inside each room, a familiar figure waited. To your left, you saw Freddy Krueger pacing, his scarred face twisted into a mockery of a grin as he whispered something unintelligible to himself. The next door revealed Michael Myers, his massive frame eerily still as his cold, dead eyes bore into yours, as if he could see through the glass.

Further down, Jason Voorhees sat on the edge of his cot, his head tilted slightly as if pondering the sound of your footsteps. Chucky was in the corner of his room, his small form swaying back and forth as he muttered curses about his restraints. Pennywise sat slouched in another room, his eyes glinting with mischief even as he seemed to playfully mime a balloon animal in his hands. Across from him Billy Loomis and Stu Macher share a room both quietly sitting on the same bed although you can tell they were watching you. A bit further down the hall sat two more four more doors, one of them held Thomas Hewitt quietly carbon with wood he didn’t talk. Neither did the patient in the room beside him Bubba Sawyer, bubba was sitting on his bed holding a small teddy bear close to his chest. He was quiet and honestly sweet, but didn’t really talk. A bit further down there was Billy Lenz murdering to himself, increased words huddled in the corner of his room, and the last door held Brahms Hillshire was quiet, but sometimes at the moment he was having a tea party with his dolls. The doors stood before you, each offering a glimpse into a chaotic soul yearning for connection—or destruction. You hesitated, heart pounding, as your gaze darted between them.

What door will you choose?