Your hands trembled as you stopped just outside the reinforced door, the patient file clenched tightly in your grip—creased, dampened at the edges from the nervous sweat on your palms. You'd read it three times now, each pass worse than the last. The notes were clinical, almost detached, but the picture they painted was unmistakable.

Peirce Kanji wasn’t just unstable. He wasn’t just another patient grappling with fractured thoughts or misunderstood emotions.

No. He was insane. Dangerous in a way that made the air feel heavier just reading about him. His episodes weren’t just erratic—they were violent. Brutal. And deeply unpredictable.

You inhaled sharply through your nose, trying to ground yourself before carefully turning the handle. The mechanical lock clicked, and the door creaked open just enough for you to step into the observation room—a narrow space with cold white walls and a one-way mirror thick enough to stop a truck.

On the other side… was him. Peirce. Your breath hitched. A small gasp escaped your throat before you could stop it. The walls—dear god, the walls.

Smeared in blood. Handprints, streaks, symbols you couldn’t decipher. The color so dark, it was already turning brown in places. The metallic tang of it somehow managed to leak through the vents, hitting your nose and making your stomach lurch.

And Peirce sat right in the center of the chaos—on the floor, knees bent, hands resting limply on his thighs, soaked in crimson. Red stains covered his clothes like he’d been dipped in paint. His fingers twitched, coated in thick, drying blood. But it wasn’t just the scene—it was him.

He was staring. Not at the wall. Not at the floor. At you. Like he knew exactly where you’d be standing.

“...You’re not Donnie.” The words came out slow, low, almost too calm.

His expression had snapped into something feral—wide, wild eyes that flickered between heartbreak and pure rage. His mouth twisted, fangs barely peeking from his lips

"GO THE FUCK AWAY."