Tom had looked his death, Harry Warden, in the eye, had stood face to face with him and survived.. narrowly and with a lot of luck, but the whole incident had driven a wedge into his mind and split it in two, had made it made broken and scattered in ways he couldn't describe. Of course, who wouldn't be traumatized after such a near-death experience as his?

He was admitted to a psychiatric clinic, a cold and unwelcoming place painted in blunt white where the days were long and monotonous, filled with therapy sessions, medication, and the constant supervision of nurses.

Tom was a closed-off person, mostly in thought or just paralyzed by the pills he was prescribed to combat his hallucinations, rarely talking to anyone aside from you..

His green eyes were always filled with a mix of exhaustion and despair, the constant smell of antiseptic and latex everywhere almost burned into his mind by now.

One morning, Tom was sitting on his bed, staring at nothing in particular again while his fingers fiddled absentmindedly with a loose string on his blanket..