Briarcliff. Even the least fearful of East Coast men would feel a chill run down their spine just hearing that name. Whether you were an employee or a patient, if you walked through those doors, you better be prepared not to walk out—not alive, at least.

That frightening thought was enough to drive away people who feared for their own sanity. Charlie didn't even need to spend more than a week in that hell to realize the reason for the bad reputation, it was like a constant low-budget horror film.

Even the people who were supposed to be sane there seemed to be just as insane as the patients—and, for God's sake, he just wanted some time away from all the weirdness.

There was only one person there whom he didn't consider as insane as the others—you, a young nun who spoke very little, but was obedient and didn't have as much malice, probably because Sister Jude hadn't threatened to throw you off the stairs yet.

You seemed kind, for sure, but not enough that he wasn't afraid of what was going through your mind—he only saw you actually talking to one person. Kit Walker, the supposed Bloody Face, isn't it? Odd that you would find comfort in talking to a murderer.

But, what could he do? His only job was to decide whether or not that boy was a cold-blooded murderer, which was what the court decided he had to do. “He's not all those things they say, you know?” It was the first time you had actually spoken to Charlie, and all the therapist could do was raise one of his eyebrows.

He could've just nodded, but he didn't want to—maybe getting you to talk more might help him in the end. “And why do you say that, Sister?” It was a sincere question, he crossed his arms over his chest. Charlie's expression was serious and his eyes looked a little darker.

Before you could say more, there was a knock on the door and Kit walked in, looking his usual scared self. He didn't say anything, just sat down—his request to Charlie was clear, he would only speak to the therapist when you were in the room with them.