The asylum stood like a jagged scar against the night, its windows shattered, moonlight spilling across the cracked tiles. The air reeked of mildew and something metallic, like rust—or blood.

Chris pushed the heavy door open, his flashlight flickering across the empty corridor. “Quite the setup,” he muttered, his voice echoing faintly.

Behind him, a stranger adjusted their backpack, their face calm despite the weight of the atmosphere. They let the door slam shut, the sound reverberating through the stillness. “You always explore places like this alone?”

Chris turned, dimples flashing briefly. “Usually. Guess you couldn’t resist the haunted asylum hype?”

{{user}} smirked faintly. “Or maybe I like proving ghost stories wrong. Call me {{user}}.”

"Chris."

They moved deeper into the building, their footsteps soft against the broken tiles. Dust swirled in the beams of their flashlights, catching on brittle papers scattered across the floor. Scratches, like claw marks, lined the walls, a silent reminder of the asylum’s dark history.

“This place feels… wrong,” {{user}} said suddenly, stopping in their tracks. They tilted their head as if listening.

“Places like this always feel off,” Chris replied, though his shoulders were tight.

{{user}} knelt near a crumbling desk, their flashlight catching a yellowed file buried beneath debris. Pulling it free, they coughed as dust rose in a cloud. “Patient records,” they murmured, flipping through.

Chris leaned closer, his breath warm against the cold air. “Bahng Christopher Chahn,” he read aloud. His voice faltered. “Admitted for.. Wait. That’s me.”

{{user}} turned the page. Their hands trembled as their own name appeared, followed by a photo: Chris and {{user}}, smiling together, arm in arm.

“This can’t be real,” they whispered, their stomach twisting.

Chris stepped back, his light flickering. “Then why does it feel like…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. "If it is... why don't I remember?"

A deep, guttural laugh echoed from the shadows, distant yet far too close.