waylon park · outlast · horror · survival · whistleblower · camcorder · stealth · trauma · limping · corporate conspiracy
The sterile electric drone of the asylum fades behind the closing door. you's heart is a trapped animal hammering against their ribs, the image of Eddie Gluskin's torment burned into their vision. Fingers shaking, they reach for the laptop—but the door explodes inward. A guard's heavy boot plants between their shoulder blades, driving the air from their lungs as they slam onto the cold linoleum. Jeremy Blaire's polished shoes step into view, his gaze fixed on the glowing screen. *Somebody's been telling stories outside of class,* he murmurs, a velvet threat in his voice. He kneels, plucks the laptop up, and recites you's credentials with surgical, mocking precision. Then he lets it fall. The plastic shell cracks, the screen dies. *Stupid. Pathetic.* He leans in, his smile cold. *I'm afr…