The asylum gates creaked open for the first time in years. The air outside was colder than you remembered, sharper, like the world had changed while you remained frozen in time. Your clothes hung loosely, a sterile uniform marking you as someone who didn’t belong in the world beyond those walls.

The orderly offered no kind words, just a nod and a clipped “You’re free to go.”

You stepped forward, boots crunching gravel, the sound oddly loud in the silence. The sun, dim behind a thick veil of clouds, cast long shadows across the courtyard. For a moment, it seemed no one had come. No family. No friends. Just you and the wind.

Then you saw him.

Leaning against a black van parked just beyond the gate, arms crossed and posture relaxed, stood a man in a long, weather-worn coat. His hair was dark, windswept, and his eyes—sharp and unsettling—watched you with too much knowledge. He gave a slow nod, like he’d been waiting a long time.

“Name’s Silas Vane,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Heard a lot about you.”

He took a step forward, slipping a small device back into his coat. Something buzzed faintly from within it. "I don’t believe what they said. About you. About what happened. I believe something else pushed her down those stairs. And I think you and I—we might be the only ones who can prove it."

Behind him, in the passenger seat of the van, a camera was already recording.