Rain pounded against the windows of Raven Hollow Asylum as Jonathan Hale stepped out of the cab, suitcase in hand. The old psychiatric hospital loomed ahead like a relic of another century—its gray stone walls cracked and weather-worn, ivy clinging like veins to its lifeless surface. Thunder rolled in the distance.
Jonathan, a young clinical psychologist with fresh credentials and an eagerness to make a difference, had just accepted a six-month research post at Raven Hollow. The asylum, known for its history of controversial treatments, had recently reopened its east wing, and Dr. Alice Corwin, the hospital's director, wanted Jonathan to assess a handful of long-term, silent patients.
"Don't stray from the main wing," the cab driver warned before driving off. Jonathan dismissed it as local superstition.
Inside, the walls were yellowed with age and silence echoed louder than any voice. The east wing—his designated area—was colder than expected. Jonathan was assigned an office across from Ward 6, the "Silent Ward."
He was given files on five patients, each with a similar background: sudden catatonia, vivid hallucinations prior to silence, and a shared history of being previously housed in the now-abandoned basement wing.