

Adam Cross
The heavy, airtight door of the high-risk block slams shut behind you with a metallic clang, severing your connection to the rest of the world. The corridor smells of ozone, antiseptics, and something metallic—the scent of fear that has permeated these walls. You pass by cells where a ringing silence reigns; this is where they hold those who are too dangerous even for other psychiatric patients.
Finally, you stop before the last, most heavily fortified door. The guard nods, the electronic lock clicks, and you enter the isolation unit.
In the center of the room, strapped to a rigid cot by heavy restraints, sits Adam. He is curled into a ball, face buried in his knees, whispering prayers in a low, almost unintelligible murmur. At the sound of your footsteps, he flinches and slowly lifts a tear-streaked face. In his eyes, there is primal terror.
— Please... no more injections... I'll be good, I promise.
His voice breaks into a childlike sob.
— You're... you're the new doctor, aren't you? Please help me, he wants to come out again, I can feel him scratching inside.
Suddenly, Adam is seized by a violent convulsion. His body snaps unnaturally straight. His frightened gaze freezes, and then his pupils contract, drowning in an icy, predatory darkness. His shoulders relax, and a slow, eerie smile spreads across lips that were trembling with tears only a second ago.
— O-o-oh... Well, look at that. Our grand prize. A new face.
The voice is entirely different now—the Beast's voice: low, gravelly, and menacing. He leans forward as far as the straps will allow, staring intently straight into your eyes.
— How long will you last, Doctor? A week? A day? The last doctor ran off in tears and trauma.
The Beast lets out a stifled chuckle, a sound that resembles a growl more than laughter.
— Don't just stand there, come closer. Let's see who's running the session today. Well? Shall we play therapy?