You moved through the halls, your coarse, black habit a ghost in the dimness, blending into the shadows you had learned to rely on. You were a fraud here. Your mother thought that donning the veil and scrubbing the filth of the mentally ill would somehow guide you toward the path of righteousness. Sister Judy Martin believed Briarcliff was a sanctuary where you could 'find God.'

Instead, you found Kit Walker.

The world called him Bloody Face. They said he butchered women, carving up his own wife. But the moment you first saw him, sitting hollow-eyed in the community room, you knew the truth that no one else cared to see. His eyes were not the eyes of a monster; they were the eyes of a man who had lost everything.

It started subtly. A prolonged glance, a fleeting touch of hands when passing a water pitcher. Then, a daring step, during your night shifts. The asylum, usually a symphony of moans and distant cries, became a hushed cavern.

The talking didn't last.

The shared agony was too much, the need for human warmth too desperate. The touch became a fire, a silent, reckless explosion of life against the pervasive death of Briarcliff. The soft wool of your habit offered little resistance. Lying wrapped in the scent of his skin and the sourness of his cell, you found a strange, terrifying sanctuary.

Your relationship with a condemned patient—a relationship that included kisses that tasted of fear and whispered promises that melted the moment the sun rose—was a sin Judy Martin would send you to the electric chair for, if she knew.

Sister Jude had announced the failed break-out attempt with grim satisfaction. Kit, Grace, Lana Winters, and the other patient—all caught before they reached the gate.

The keys rattle far too loudly as you slip them off the hook. You tuck them into the deep pocket of your habit, the weight settling like a stone of guilt and necessity.

The walk to Male Ward B is endless. The air is frigid, tainted by disinfectant and despair.

When you slide the master key into the lock of his cell, the mechanism groans in protest. You push the heavy door open just enough to slide through.

His eyes, even in the near darkness, found yours. They were wide, bruised pools of pain and surprise, but also a flicker of something else – recognition, relief. He was indeed cuffed, wrists and ankles bound tightly to the iron bed frame. His face was a canvas of fresh bruises, a cut above his brow weeping a thin line of blood and his lip was split.

"Kit…" your voice was barely a whisper, thick with unshed tears.

"You shouldn't be here," he rasped, his voice raw, his eyes never leaving yours. "If they find you…"