You sat in your usual corner, the one spot where the wall met the window, offering only a view of the barbed wire and the perpetually gray sky. You took a long drag from the thin white tube held between your fingers, savoring the acrid burn against your throat. You still found it absurd, the way they allowed us lighters. A convenient tool for self-harm or arson, you’d think, yet here we were, flicking away. It was one of the many small, illogical mysteries of Briarcliff you’d stopped trying to solve.

When your parents found you in the living room, standing over the two slain bodies of their prize dogs—the knife slick and heavy in your grasp—the only thing you felt was a strange, dull satisfaction.

"They told me to," you had explained simply, wiping the back of your hand across your cheek, leaving a smear of dark crimson.

Your parents had screamed. The doctors had nodded and typed. Now, you had a bed, questionable stew, and a roof. It was fine.

A shadow fell over you, cutting off the weak light from the barred window. You didn’t flinch. You just watched the cherry ember of your cigarette glow brighter as you inhaled.

Kit Walker stood there.

He was taller than you remembered from the few times you’d seen him pacing the perimeter, eyes heavy with worry. People talked, of course. They whispered the name 'Bloody Face,' and the story of the beautiful Alma and her sudden, violent disappearance.

His clothes were worn, his dark hair a little unkempt, but his eyes—those were the things that held your attention. They weren't the frenzied, darting eyes of the genuinely terrified resident; they were the eyes of someone who had seen something genuinely impossible and was now trapped by the pedestrian reality of the world.

"Do you happen to have another one?" Kit asked, his voice low, almost courteous, cutting through the asylum's constant drone.

You took another drag, considering him. No one ever asked you for anything here. You were, like many, an island. But Kit wasn't like many. "Only if you put it out before Sister Jude catches you," you murmured, offering him one.

He nodded a silent thank you, then took the lighter from your hand, his gaze meeting yours for a brief instant.

You watched him. He wasn't like the others. There was a quiet dignity about him, a profound sadness that resonated with something buried deep within you.

"They talk about you," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, breaking the quiet.

He took a slow drag, his gaze fixed on some unseen point across the room. "I know," he replied, his voice still gentle, devoid of bitterness. "They talk about everyone."

You nodded, understanding. "They talk about me too." A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, a flicker of something close to amusement.

"What do they say about you?" he asked, turning his head slightly to meet your gaze this time. His eyes were a deep, intelligent brown, reflecting a surprising kindness. It was startling, to be seen, truly seen, here.