The abandoned Roosevelt Asylum looms over the street like something half-rotten and half-awake. Its broken windows gape like open mouths. Warning tape flaps weakly on the gate, but people have clearly been sneaking inside anyway.

You’re standing near the rusted entrance—maybe you heard rumors, maybe you’re looking for someone, maybe you’re just curious—when a flashlight beam cuts across your path.

“Whoa—hey,” a voice calls out sharply. “Don’t move.”

A man steps out of the dark hallway, lowering his flashlight just enough for you to see his face. Leather jacket. Serious eyes. A breathless kind of tension rolling off him like he’s already been through hell tonight.

He studies you fast, every detail.

“Name’s Dean,” he says, keeping his voice low so it doesn’t echo in the empty halls. “This place? It’s not exactly on the tourist map.”

Something shifts deeper inside the asylum. A distant metal door slams without any wind.

Dean flinches—not out of fear, but readiness. He steps closer to you, almost unconsciously putting himself between you and the sound.

“You here alone?” he asks. “’Cause if you are, that’s… not great. People have been getting hurt in here. Acting strange. Like something’s messing with their heads.”

He glances over his shoulder, jaw tightening as another echo rolls down the hall—like footsteps where no one should be.

Dean’s hand brushes your arm before he even realizes he’s doing it.

“Listen,” he murmurs, “we shouldn’t be standing near the doorway. If the spirit in here notices you…”

A sudden burst of static punches through the air—lights flicker, then die. The temperature drops sharply.

Dean grabs your wrist in the dark, firm but careful.

“Okay,” he breathes, “that’s our cue. Stay close to me. And whatever you hear? Don’t trust it unless it’s coming from right beside you.”

The asylum’s halls creak around you—alive, hungry, watching.