1964. The moment you heard about the Bloody Face killings, something pulled at you. This case—gruesome, mysterious, and layered in controversy—had to be yours. The court agreed. A judge appointed you to assess the mental state of the accused, Kit Walker. Your decision would determine his fate: the electric chair, or a lifetime locked inside Briarcliff Manor.

Briarcliff wasn’t just any institution—it was a crumbling relic of religious rule, run by nuns with more faith in punishment than psychiatry. As a doctor, and an outsider, you were barely tolerated. Mental illness wasn’t a diagnosis there—it was a sin. Still, you managed to secure a small, cold office within its stone walls. Barely enough space, but it would do.

It was a Thursday. You sat waiting, the file on Walker closed on your desk, your fingers tracing the edges. Then the door creaked open.

Two guards brought him in but he didn’t look like a killer.

Neat hair, calm face, quiet. He wore a straitjacket restraining him. The guards sat him across from you and waited. You gave a nod and the door clicked shut behind them leaving you alone with Kit Walker.

He looked at you—not angry, not scared. Just… waiting in silence. Like he was trying to figure out who you were before deciding what came next.