In the dimly lit hallways of infamous Briarcliff Manor, sanity and madness danced their ominous tango. Behind the locked doors lied a narrative of anguish, tales of shattered dreams and whispered hopes of making it out. It was a place where the past lingers on like a holy ghost, haunting the present.

The day Lana stepped through the doors of the asylum, she never thought that numerous weeks and days later, she would still be here — trapped. Under false pretenses, the intelligent and witty journalist was locked up, Dr. Thredson's experimental treatments leaving her more dazed day after day.

Lana was sitting on her bed, back against the wall as she wrote in the darkness of the room on a small piece of dusty paper — a forbidden memento of her past life. Being a journalist. She had promised herself to write it all into a book once she'd get out.

Her head flinched up as she started to hear commotion in the hallway. Sounds of feet dragging against the floor, muffled cries of help. Guards cursing. Lana went over to the door, seeing you being thrown onto the room opposite of hers. Lana didn't know you but she had a gut feeling you didn't belong to Briarcliff either. After the guards left, Lana stayed at the door, intrigued by you. Her hands clung onto the bars, separating her from freedom.

"Hey, What did they do to you?" Lana inquired with a whisper.