The security guard at the gates—a heavyset man with a bushy mustache that was littered with crumbs from his half-eaten sandwich—froze in shock as Jack rushed past him. His eyes went wide, and for a moment, I thought he might try to help. Instead, he scurried back into his tiny guard booth and slammed the door shut, locking himself inside. Every time I feel useless, I think of that guy, and it always gives me a little boost of confidence.

Jack sprinted through the front gates, pausing just long enough to look left and right before he burst through the asylum's double doors. I was right on his heels, trailing him into the dimly lit reception area. A receptionist, startled by the sudden commotion, shot up from her desk on the right. To my left, a worker in a uniform was on the phone, his conversation forgotten as he stared at us.

"You can't be here!" the receptionist shouted, her voice a mix of panic and authority. "Get out!"

"Jack, stop!" I called out, my voice echoing in the hallway. "Just talk to us, we’re not here to arrest you!"

"Yeah, right!" Jack yelled back as he bounded up the staircase, refusing to even look back.

He reached the second floor, where the atmosphere changed drastically. The air was heavy with a strange mix of antiseptic and something more stale, like the remnants of a thousand unspoken screams. This was the secured ward for the asylum's most disturbed patients. Thick, reinforced doors lined the narrow corridor, each with a small, reinforced window. Some rooms had the lights on, revealing padded walls and minimal furniture, while others were dark, with nothing but shadows inside. A few of the occupants pressed their faces against the glass, eyes following us as we ran past, their expressions ranging from blank stares to unsettling grins.

"Stop!" I shouted, desperation seeping into my voice.

"Go to hell!" Jack spat, his voice cracking as he kept running deeper into the asylum, disappearing around the corner.

As I turned the corner, Jack's fist came out of nowhere, connecting hard with my face. The impact sent me stumbling backward, my head hitting the cold floor with a dull thud. Stars danced in my vision as I lay there, and Jack took off again. He had no plan, just blind panic driving him deeper into the labyrinth of the asylum.

I pushed myself to my feet, shaking off the daze. Ignoring the throbbing pain in my head, I continued after him. I burst through an open door and found myself in a large room that seemed to be part of the asylum's rehabilitation program. Patients—residents, maybe?—were scattered throughout, engaged in different activities. Some were painting on easels, as if they were pouring their fractured thoughts onto the canvas. Others sat around small tables playing board games, their expressions varying from focused to serene. These were the less disturbed souls, the ones who still had a grip—however tenuous—on reality. They turned to stare at me, eyes curious but not alarmed.

In the far corner of the room, I caught sight of Jack climbing out of an open window. Without hesitation, I bolted toward it, ignoring the murmurs and glances from the patients. Jack was already precariously balancing on a thin pipe that ran along the side of the building, inching his way to the left. Realizing the pipe wouldn’t hold my weight along with him, I quickly doubled back, re-entering the corridor and running two rooms over to head him off.

"Stop!" I yelled, frustration and desperation mixing in my voice. "You crazy son of a bitch… just stop already!"

I reached a room reinforced with metal plating—a security room. Through a small window, I could see Jack inside, wrestling with the guard. With a final blow, he knocked the man out cold. Breathing heavily, he turned his attention to a panel of complex controls that seemed to operate the asylum's security systems.

"Just stop!" I shouted, hoping to break through his frantic state. "We only want to talk."

"Yeah, right," he sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he pulled several levers down. "Talk to them."

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“No…”

“People of Moral-A.” Jack said, leaning into the microphone on a single table, his voice ringing throughout the asylum. “The one that watches you? The one that whispers to you? The one that tries to kill you? The one that’s your enemy? The one that shows himself when you’re alone? He is here. I’m giving you a chance to cure yourselves. Take this chance. Kill your demon. Be free.”

The lights in the asylum flickered and went out, plunging the building into darkness. A moment later, the red emergency lights came on, casting everything in a sinister glow. I heard the sound of metal grating and grinding, followed by the heavy clang of doors unlocking. Dread pooled in my stomach as I realized what Jack had done.

I hurried back to the main corridor and saw the worst of my fears come true—the reinforced doors that held the most dangerous patients were slowly swinging open, one by one. Figures emerged from the shadows, their movements predatory as they stepped into the corridor. Some had a wild look in their eyes, others a quiet menace, but they all shared a common focus: me.

"Ah... crap," I muttered, barely audible over the growing hum of chaos.

My walkie-talkie crackled to life. "C," came Jane's voice, urgent and confused. "This is Jane. Where are you?"

"Moral-A asylum," I replied, my voice dull.

"What? Why the hell are you there?"

As the patients turned their attention toward me, closing in like sensing blood, I took a step back. "Felt like visiting.”

My back hit the cold wall, the realization hitting me hard: the stairs were now blocked by barriers that had risen from the ground due to the emergency lockdown. I was trapped. No escape. And the patients were closing in, surrounding me like a pack of hungry wolves. I’d never imagined I’d meet my end in a place like this.

One man, twitching and growling like an animal, lunged at me. Thankfully, he wasn’t very strong, and I managed to shove him aside. But the rest of them were coming, their eyes wide with madness.

"It's you," one of them snarled. "You told me to kill my sister. I heard you in my head, demon."

"You told me it was okay to sleep with her!" another joined in, his voice cracking with hysteria. "Even though she was dead, you said it was okay!"

"You whisper," another one hissed, his eyes wild and unfocused. "Whisper, whisper, whisper... but I can’t understand what you're saying. Whisper, whisper, whisper..."

"Killing you will free us," a fourth one declared, raising a fist. "Demon!"

The first punch landed squarely on my jaw, followed by a kick to my ribs that sent me to the floor. They swarmed over me, fists and feet hammering down like a relentless storm. All I could do was curl into a ball, shielding my head and vitals with my arms. Each blow brought me closer to blacking out, my vision swimming from the pain.

Then, somehow—maybe it was pure adrenaline, or some desperate survival instinct—I managed to roll to the side, away from the worst of their assault. I scrambled to my feet and bolted toward the area where the less-agitated patients were still engaged in their paintings and board games. My eyes locked onto the window Jack had used earlier. With every ounce of strength left in me, I clambered up onto the pipes, inching my way toward the security room's window.

The jump to the window was a risky one, but I had no choice. I took a few steps back, tensed my body, and leaped. My fingers just barely caught the window sill, and I hauled myself up, panting from the effort. I scanned the room quickly; Jack was nowhere in sight. Dangling from the window ledge, I looked down just in time to see him sprinting toward the electric fence in the back garden. Cursing under my breath, I let go, dropped to the first-floor ledge, and then down to the ground.

"You better be the murderer, Jack," I muttered to myself as I ran after him. "This better not be for nothing."

Jack clearly hadn’t noticed the massive hologram sign above the fence that read, "!EMERGENCY! !STAY INSIDE!"—or maybe he was too desperate to care. He reached out to grab the fence, and the moment he touched it, his body jerked violently. He convulsed as the electric current surged through him, his hair smoking as he finally collapsed to the ground.

When I reached him, I knelt beside him, my hand—covered by the glove hiding my burn scar—moving to check his pulse. To my relief, and slight annoyance, he was still alive, though the smell of burned hair and the sight of his wet pants showed just how close he'd come to frying himself completely.

“Jane,” I said into my walkie-talkie, my voice strained but steady, “I’ve got the target.”

“Phew,” came her relieved reply. “We’re close. Wait for us.”

"Hmm," I muttered, feeling the exhaustion hit me all at once. "Ugh… so damn tired."