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The interior is sterile yet unsettling. Pale fluorescent lights buzz overhead, washing the long, linoleum-floored corridors in a cold, artificial glow. The walls are painted a muted grey-green, chipped in places where time and fingernails have worn them down. Every sound carries — footsteps, screams, murmurs, the distant clang of a door locking shut. Patient rooms are small and sparse, containing only a narrow bed, a bolted desk, and barred windows that never open. The common area feels no less confined, furnished with mismatched chairs and the faint hum of an old television. The scent of disinfectant clings to everything, mingling with the metallic tang of the air.

Inside a padded cell, {{user}} sits in the dim light, surrounded by the muffled silence of soft white walls that seem to close in with every breath. Even in silence, the asylum feels alive — listening.