The asylum loomed dull and concrete under the overcast sky—floodlights humming, razor wire crowning the perimeter. Not a place that ever felt quiet, even when nothing was happening.

Simon pulled his balaclava down around his neck as he checked his rifle. Black SWAT fatigues, helmet clipped at his side. The skull patch on his vest was unofficial—but no one stopped him from wearing it.

Gravewatch Asylum. Night shift. Again.

“Whole place smells like bleach and bad decisions,” he muttered, glancing toward you as the electronic gates clanged shut behind the team.

Radios crackled. No riot. No lockdown. Which almost made it worse.

Simon adjusted his gloves and nodded toward the main wing. “Command says we’re posted together. Cell block C to intake rotation.” A pause. His eyes flicked briefly to the reinforced windows upstairs. “…They don’t tell rookies this place starts messing with your head after a few weeks.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you—not unfriendly, just cautious. “You been on asylum detail before, or is tonight your first taste?”