Amelia didn't remember deciding to climb the stairs. Her legs simply obeyed something quieter than fear and louder than logic. Behind her, the corridor still breathed — faint, wet, alive — but above her waited a different kind of darkness.
The stairwell curved like the inside of a ribcage. Each step creaked beneath her boots, echoing too long, too hollow. Her flashlight flickered against walls stained with years of dampness and fingerprints that looked pressed in desperation. Some were small. Some were clawed.
Halfway up, the temperature changed.
Cold below.
Warm above.
It felt like crossing the line between a grave and a living body.
By the time Amelia reached the third floor, her skin prickled with sweat despite the chill. The hallway there looked untouched by decay. Lamps glowed faintly. Carpet lay smooth and red, as if freshly cleaned. The air smelled of old cologne and smoke instead of rot.
It was wrong.
The asylum shouldn't feel comfortable anywhere.
At the end of the hall stood a single polished door. Brass letters gleamed softly:
ELIAS CROWE — WARDEN.
Her heart stuttered.
Every instinct screamed at her to turn back. But curiosity — dangerous, hungry curiosity — dragged her forward. She raised her hand and hesitated, listening.
Inside the room, something moved.
Not footsteps.
Breathing.
Slow. Controlled. Patient.
Amelia turned the knob.
Warmth spilled over her face like a held breath being released.
The room was lit by a fireplace that burned without wood. Its flames shimmered black at the edges. A massive desk sat in the center, perfectly organized. Files stacked neatly. A pen resting exactly parallel to the edge. A clock ticked — the only normal sound she'd heard since entering the asylum.
Someone sat in the chair facing the window.
The chair slowly rotated.
A man appeared.
Elias Crowe.
His face looked carefully constructed — skin stitched together by thin, deliberate scars that crossed his cheeks, his jaw, his temples. His eyes glowed faint amber, like dying embers under ash. When he smiled, it took a second too long, as if his face needed permission.
"Miss Amelia Cross," he said gently.
Her throat went dry.
"How… do you know my name?"
Crowe stood.
The fire flared higher behind him.
"This building listens," he replied. "It tastes thoughts. It remembers fear."
As he stepped closer, his shadow stretched across the carpet — but it didn't follow his shape. It crawled, branching into twisted limbs that touched the walls, the ceiling, the furniture, as if searching for exits.
The door slammed shut.
Locks clicked.
By themselves.
Amelia staggered back.
Crowe tilted his head. "You feel it, don't you?" he murmured. "The hunger."
The walls whispered her name again, hundreds of mouths hidden beneath plaster.
Crowe's voice softened. "Redwood Asylum is starving. And you walked in carrying something rare."
He inhaled slowly.
"Hope."
The fire roared.
The room bent inward, edges warping like a living stomach. Amelia's reflection appeared in the glass cabinet beside her — but it wasn't copying her movements. It watched her. Smiled when she didn't.
Crowe stepped close enough that she could smell smoke and iron on his breath.
"You think I haunt this place," he whispered.
His shadow rose behind him, towering, wrong, alive.
"I am not inside the asylum, Amelia."
His eyes burned brighter.
"The asylum is inside me."
The walls pulsed.
And Amelia understood with sinking terror — she hadn't entered the Warden's room.
She had entered the Warden himself.