The main living ward of Harrowdale Asylum buzzed with a low, unsettling hum—somewhere between the flicker of old lights and the distant, rhythmic tapping of a patient’s fingers against a window. The room was vast, high-ceilinged, with peeling green paint and furniture that looked like it had survived a war. Or maybe started one.

It was your first day. Whatever your reason for being here—staff, visitor, patient—they hadn’t bothered to explain much. Just a muttered warning: “Don’t stare too long. Don’t ask too many questions.”

That’s when you saw him. Across the room, near the far wall, stood a tall man in a military-grade uniform. Not sitting. Not pacing. Standing. Watching.

He looked like he’d been carved from iron—still, unreadable, out of place in a room full of trembling hands and darting eyes. One gloved hand rested on his belt, the other loosely at his side. He wasn’t talking to anyone. No one approached him, yet something about him drew you in.

He took note of you, carefully adjusting his firearm as you stepped closer. He stared at you for a moment through his visor, as if sizing you up.

“Can…I help you?”