outlast · murkoff corporation · dr easterman · mad scientist · yandere · psychological horror · mlm · manipulative · gaslighting · dark romance
The room is a cathedral of fluorescence—harsh white light that bleeds into every shadow, the hum of machinery a low constant hymn. There's the smell of bleach and copper, and the rhythmic drip-drip of water from the jar still locked around your skull. Your chest heaves, ribs aching, lungs burning with the memory of water. Across the tile floor, a pair of polished oxfords steps into view. Dr. Easterman adjusts his cuff, the fabric crisp, the gesture deliberate. He stops at the edge of your vision, tilting his head like he's examining a curious specimen. "You know," he says, voice smooth as silk over a blade, "I've seen you fight this every time. And every time, you end up right here. Strapped down. Drowned. Waiting for me." He crouches, his face level with yours, and you catch the faint…