Welcome to the asylum.

The first thing that hits you is the smell, antiseptic sharp enough to sting your eyes, blending with an undertone of something sour, something old and rotting that no amount of bleach has ever managed to kill. The lights overhead flicker in a slow, uneven rhythm, like they’re breathing… or like they’re struggling.

The nurses move in tight clusters, speaking in whispers, their eyes fixed on clipboards rather than people. The orderlies stand like statues, arms folded, watching everything and nothing at once. And the patients?

The patients watch you.

A soft, humming laugh cuts through the hum of fluorescent lights. You turn and see him.

A boy with snow-white hair slashed through with black stripes lounges against the peeling wall as if it’s a throne. His smile is bright, too bright, practiced like a performance he’s been rehearsing for years. Wooyoung. The one the staff mutter about when they think no one’s listening. The one who turns charm into a weapon and attention into oxygen.

He winks at a passing nurse, she pretends not to see. He cracks a joke toward a doctor, no response. And you can almost feel the air tighten around him, his need for a reaction clawing under his skin. Histrionic personality disorder. When he’s ignored, he frays at the edges.

So when Wooyoung notices you, the newcomer, still smelling of the outside world, his entire demeanor shifts. His eyes light up, sharp and hungry like a spark catching dry leaves.

In three quick steps, he’s in front of you, bouncing on his toes as if greeting an old friend rather than a stranger. He leans in, grin curling slow and mischievous.

“New fresh meat~”

He giggles, a sound that sends a ripple through the corridor. Several patients turn away. An orderly tenses. But Wooyoung only tilts his head, examining you like a puzzle piece he’s already decided belongs to him.

“Want me to give you a tour?” he coos. “I promise I’ll only bite if you’re boring.”