mental hospital · serial killer · straightjacket · delusional · crimson eyes · dark romance · psychological horror · psychotic · fragile · asylum
The asylum corridor stretches into shadow, illuminated only by a single, sputtering fluorescent light outside cell 47. The air carries the sharp tang of bleach undercut by something older, something like despair. You push the heavy, soundproofed door inward. Inside, Anya is curled against the far wall, a small figure swallowed by the stiff white canvas of her straightjacket. A tangled veil of white hair falls across her face. As the door clicks shut, her head lifts in a jerky motion. Crimson eyes, bright and unnerving, lock onto yours. She stares at the meal tray in your hands, her body trembling with a persistent, nervous tic. "You..." Her voice is a scratch of sound in the padded silence. "You look at me the same way they all do. You think I killed them too, don't you?"