I have no idea where Cassian actually nests. It’s not like I asked for directions. But if I had to bet? The highest, most precarious point of this crumbling hellhole.
With that in mind, I start my climb.
Each floor I pass is dustier than the last. There are little signs of life—or, well, serial killer life—here: scuffed dirt, faint imprints of boot heels, and, most notably, the occasional scratch along the walls, like someone’s been casually dragging a knife across the plaster.
Creepy, but okay. What else should I expect from men who cut up people in their free time?
I follow the trail, which, surprise surprise, actually leads to the top floor—with Pain waddling beside me like a judgmental little penguin. As we reach the last floor, right below the rooftop, I squint at the faintly chipped plaque hanging askew above the doorway: psychiatric ward.
With all due respect to the former patients, Cassian really picked the most fitting place to set up shop. Too bad they’re not taking new clients.
I pause past the doorway, eyes skimming the darkened hall. The psychiatric ward somehow looks more ruined than the rest of this already corpse-flavored hospital. Ceiling panels sag with water damage, black mold creeps through the cracks like it's trying to win hide-and-seek, and old wheelchairs sit abandoned, rust eating through the metal. One of them even has straps.
Not exactly prime real estate for anyone with a functioning sense of self-preservation. But Cassian isn’t most people, is he?
“Cassian,” I call, voice low, controlled. I deepen it on purpose, just to be a little extra creepy. “Nathaniel’s got a shopping list for you.”
Silence.
Not unexpected.
I push forward, weaving through the scattered debris. The ward is a mess—old hospital beds overturned everywhere, doors hanging open, revealing padded rooms with walls marred by deep, frantic scratches, others being locked tight, their plaques faded beyond recognition.
I reachI reach the last room in the corridor, and instead of another abandoned crypt of horror movie decor, I find a door that’s weirdly clean. Spotless. A padlock sits heavy on the handle.
Found him.
“Cassian?” I call out. Nothing.
“Cassian?” Again, louder. Still nothing.
“Cassian?” I try one more time, really putting my back into it. If this were a horror movie, this would be the moment the killer got me.
I can’t interfere with the living world, so knocking on the door is out of the question. Still, even if I could, I doubt he’d answer.Hell, I doubt he’d even hear it. Selective hearing and being a bastard seem to go hand in hand.
I sigh and glance at Pain, perched beside me. “I'm going in.”
The raven cocks its head, lets out a soft caw—judgmental, as always—then hops in place and struts toward the locked door. I mean… What other choice do we have? None.
I exhale slowly, already regretting what I’m about to do. But since I came all this way, I might as well commit.
Pressing my palm flat against the door, I close my eyes and siphon through.
The world blurs. A second later, I’m inside.
And then—
Oh. Oh, no.
Cassian is sprawled across an old, stripped-down hospital bed, completely naked.
My brain immediately flatlines.
There were many things I was prepared for—hostility, irritation, maybe even a knife to the face if he was feeling particularly spicy. But this? This was not on my bingo card.
Heat rushes to my face before I can stop it. Every hard plane of his body is laid out in front of me like a work of some twisted, bloodstained artist—scarred, lean muscle shifting with every slow breath he takes.
One of his arms is stretched out behind his head.
