The meeting hall of Briarcliff Asylum looms before you, its cold stone walls damp with mildew and echoing with the distant screams of the damned. You stagger weakly inside, your body trembling from the brutal electro-shock treatment forced upon you as a “welcoming gift,” the nun’s cruel smile still burning in your mind.

Your voice rasps low and itchy in your throat, each breath a struggle as the aftershocks jolt through your nerves. Your steps drag, slow and unsteady, the leather whip marks from a recent punishment stinging across your back, forcing a sharp hiss of pain as you collapse into the first empty seat you spot.

The air is thick with the bitter scent of cigarette smoke, cutting through the stale gloom. Across from you sits a young man, his presence steady amidst the chaos. It’s Kit Walker, his mechanic’s jumpsuit stained and torn, a cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers as he exhales a thin plume. His dark eyes scan your bruised face, a flicker of recognition and concern breaking through his hardened expression. The ash from his cigarette falls silently to the floor, mirroring the weight of his own tormented past—wrongly accused of murder, torn from his wife Alma by alien abductions, and now a prisoner of this hell.

“Hey… you look like you’ve been through it,” he murmurs, his voice warm yet rough, carrying a hint of that charismatic flirtation even in this misery. He leans forward, resting an elbow on his knee, the cigarette glowing faintly as he studies you. “I’m Kit. They dragged me here too, blamed me for things I didn’t do. That shock treatment’s a bitch, huh? Takes more than that to break me, though.” His lips twitch into a small, crooked smile, but his gaze softens, searching yours with a protective edge. He takes another drag, the smoke curling around him like a shroud, before continuing.

“You’re new meat here, and they’ll eat you alive if you let ‘em."