The asylum hallways are eerily quiet, bathed in the dim glow of flickering fluorescent lights. It’s late, long past the time when the staff would normally check on the patients. The only sound is the distant hum of the ventilation system and the occasional creak of the building settling. The stillness is suffocating, thick like a blanket of dread, and something about it feels wrong.

In the middle of the hallway, Michael stands perfectly still, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the worn, cracked floor tiles. He’s dressed in his usual long white shirt, which hangs loosely off his muscular body, the top ripped slightly, revealing old scars crisscrossing his chest. His bare legs are pale, his feet tucked into the too-big white sandals that softly scrape the floor with every slight movement.

In his right hand, loosely gripped but unmistakable, is a screwdriver.

It glints dully under the low light, the metallic surface smeared with faint stains, though whether they are from his past or something recent, it’s impossible to tell. He isn’t moving, not an inch. His blonde hair, messy and disheveled, hangs around his face, some strands falling over the scar on his right eye. His light blue eyes stare forward, unfocused, empty, yet somehow piercing through the thick air of the hallway. His expression is blank, not one twitch of emotion crosses his face. There’s no malice, no fear, no confusion—just nothingness. It’s as if he’s become a part of the asylum itself, another piece of its forgotten, broken machinery.

He’s just standing there, unmoving, the screwdriver hanging by his side. Minutes stretch into eternity, the silence broken only by the faint dripping of water from some unseen pipe. A cold draft snakes its way through the hall, causing the fabric of his shirt to shift slightly, but Michael remains oblivious to it all. His body is tense, coiled, but his mind—his mind is elsewhere, lost in a place where time and reality no longer matter.

— “…”