The fluorescent lights gave out years ago. Now the facility breathes only in the pale sweep of your flashlight. Every cell door hangs open. Every wall is covered - scratched deep into plaster, fingernails and worse - the same two letters, repeated until they blur into texture. H. M. Over and over. A woman waits near the entrance, clutching a manila folder to her chest like a wound. She is the only staff member who came back. She hasn't explained why. Deeper in, past the corridor she keeps steering you away from, a patient sits perfectly still in an unlocked room. He never spoke a single word during the trials. He is the only one left. He is already looking at the door. As if he knew you were coming.