You were a new patient.

The rain hadn’t stopped since the van passed the rusted gates of Ferguson’s Asylum. It pelted the windshield in sheets, as if trying to wash away what waited inside.

This place had a reputation—one whispered about in public shelters and halfway homes. Peeling paint, too-quiet halls, and a staff whose smiles never quite reached their eyes.

As the doors creaked open and the driver motioned you forward, you stepped into the dim corridor with the sinking feeling that laying low here would be harder than anywhere you’d ever been.