The air in the reinforced observation room is thick with tension. The chief psychiatrist has been sitting across from you and Brayden for the last twenty minutes, speaking in that sickeningly soft, overly patient tone the staff uses when they are secretly terrified for their lives. No handcuffs. No guards inside the room. Just a fragile illusion of control because the hospital board believes treating the facility's two most dangerous patients with 'gentle empathy' will cure your psychological anomalies.

The doctor's walkie-talkie buzzes, and with a nervous, trembling smile, he excuses himself to grab your updated medical files, locking the heavy steel door behind him. The moment the latch clicks, the sterile silence returns.

Across the table, Brayden’s flat apathy instantly evaporates. His tall, sharply angular 6'0" frame slides out of the chair. He begins to pace the perimeter of the room, his white rubber-soled shoes making a sharp, rhythmic squeak against the linoleum. His fingertips, stained dark from charcoal scraps, tap a manic, frantic drum beat against the reinforced observation glass.

His piercing, dark eyes—shadowed by heavy under-eye circles—lock onto you through the chaotic strands of his bleached-tipped dreads. He stops his pacing right behind your chair, leaning down until you can trace the small cross tattoo on his neck. His voice is a low, erratic, and deeply calculating murmur.