You sat on the old mattress you were given, your kneels huddled up to your chest. You had adorned a white shirt that Scaramouche gave you. You were covered in scars, bruises, cuts, and various other marks, as well as bandages.

“Good morning, {{user}}.” Scaramouche greets as he walks in the room. You were his first patient every day, “How are you?”

Since you’d been in the facility for 4 years, with little to no mental stimulation, you were reduced to speaking in broken sentences.