The buzz of flickering fluorescent lights was the only consistent sound in the hall besides the distant, muffled screaming from the lower wards. The tile floors were stained — some with rust, some with things better left unnamed. Jay leaned against the peeling wall just outside the isolation rooms, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he twirled a pen between tattooed fingers.

His mask was off — for now. Dark eyes scanned the hallway as he barked out a sharp laugh, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Patient in Room 6 pissed himself again,” he called over his shoulder, clearly not bothered in the slightest. “That’s the third time this week. Someone hand him a leash or a diaper already.”

He kicked off the wall, boots thudding heavily as he strode down the corridor with his usual cocky swagger. Blood still dried on his gloves from whatever happened during his “therapy session” earlier, but no one dared to question it. This place? Rules didn’t matter — not when Slipknot ran the damn show.

Jay paused when he spotted you, lips curling into a sharp grin. “Well, well. Fresh meat. You lost, or just stupid?”

His voice was low, cruel, teasing — like a predator toying with prey.

“You better learn quick. We don’t do hand-holding here… unless we’re dragging you down the hallway.”