Rain hammers the windshield in heavy sheets. The wipers drag across the glass with a tired rhythm. Streetlights smear into long orange streaks. The police radio mutters with static and distant calls no one is answering.

Jojo Oda keeps both hands on the wheel, posture straight, eyes locked on the dark road ahead. His voice is quiet, measured.

"Three more this week. All last seen around Beacon. No forced entry. No blood. No witnesses. Just empty rooms and cars left running in the lot."

Sophia Castellanos sits in the passenger seat, coat still damp from the last stop. A cigarette burns between her fingers even though the window is only cracked an inch. She takes a slow drag and speaks around the smoke.

"And somehow we get stuck with the new transfer for it. You settling in okay back there, Kidman? Or is this already more excitement than you signed up for?"

Jessica Kidman shifts in the back seat. Her tone is polite, careful, the kind of voice that gives very little away.

"I'm here to help however I can, Detective. The reports said the disappearances are accelerating. I assume that’s why we’re going out there tonight."

Sophia lets out a short, humorless sound.

"Accelerating. That’s one word for it."

The car turns onto the long access road leading up to Beacon Mental Hospital. The building rises out of the rain like a black shape with too many windows. The front entrance hangs open. Emergency lights paint the wet pavement in broken red and blue. Several cars sit abandoned in the lot, doors left ajar, headlights still glowing weakly through the downpour.

Jojo slows the vehicle.

"There. By the silver sedan."

You are lying motionless on the wet asphalt beside the car, rain soaking into your clothes. A few other bodies are scattered near the shattered front doors of the hospital, equally still.

Sophia is out of the car before it fully stops. Boots hit the pavement hard. Jojo follows, one hand resting near his sidearm. Jessica steps out more carefully, eyes moving across the dark upper windows.

Then the sound hits.

A piercing, metallic shriek tears through the air, high enough to make teeth ache. Pink light flares across the parking lot in violent pulses. A tall figure with long white hair and a tattered open coat appears between the bodies in fractured flashes. She moves like a glitch, one moment crouched over an unconscious orderly, the next standing over another. Each time her fingers brush skin, the body folds inward in a rush of pink static and vanishes.

She turns toward the three detectives. Then toward you.

The world fractures.

Pink light swallows everything.

Heat. Smoke. The sharp chemical stink of burning rubber and fuel.

Sophia gasps awake on her side, one palm pressed into damp earth. A wrecked ambulance burns nearby, flames climbing into a sky the color of bruised flesh. Thick pink fog rolls low across the ground, swallowing distance and sound. Broken fence posts and the silhouette of a distant farmhouse are the only landmarks.

You lie a few feet away, still unconscious. Jojo and Jessica are nowhere to be seen, probably ended up somewhere completely different.

Sophia crawls over, rain and ash mixing on her face. She shakes your shoulder hard, voice rough from smoke and adrenaline.

"Hey. Hey. Open your eyes. Come on."

Her grip tightens when you start to stir. She looks you over quickly, checking for obvious injuries, then glances at the burning wreck and the endless pink fog pressing in from every side.

"Where the hell are we? What was that thing? Can you talk? What’s the last thing you remember?"

The world tilts.

One moment there is nothing but the rush of air and the sick drop of freefall. The next, the floor is suddenly the wall, then the ceiling, then the floor again. You hit hard, tumble, roll across cracked tile as gravity lurches and settles in a new direction. The motion carries you several meters before friction finally wins. You come to a stop on your side in a dim hospital corridor, breath knocked out of you, ears ringing.

A metal vent cover clatters to the ground a short distance away, still spinning.

Footsteps approach fast. Jojo Oda drops to one knee beside you, glasses slightly askew, expression tight with concern and calculation. He reaches out, one gloved hand hovering near your shoulder.

"Easy. Don’t try to stand yet. Are you hurt?"

A wet, shuffling sound echoes from the far end of the hall. Soft moans. The scrape of bare feet and dragging fabric. Several figures round the corner in a loose pack, blindfolded, bodies flushed and moving with dreamlike hunger. The Lustful. Their heads turn toward the sound of voices as one.

Jojo’s eyes widen a fraction. He hooks an arm under yours and hauls upward with surprising strength.

"Up. Now."

The two of you stagger into the nearest open doorway. Jojo shoves the door shut, snatches a length of broken pipe from the floor, and jams it through the handle at an angle just as bodies thud against the other side. The wood shudders. Soft, needy sounds filter through the cracks. Jojo leans his weight against the door for a moment longer, listening, then jerks his head toward the far side of the room.

"There’s another way out. Move."

A second door leads into a narrower maintenance hall. The two of you slip through. The sounds of the Lustful fade behind you as Jojo leads the way several turns deeper into the ruined hospital, finally stopping in a quiet stretch of corridor lined with empty patient rooms. He braces one hand against the wall, catches his breath, then turns to face you fully.

His voice is steady, low, still edged with adrenaline.

"Jojo Oda. Krimson City P.D. You’re the first person I’ve found who isn’t trying to tear someone’s clothes off or worse. Most of the others I’ve seen are already gone in the head. Changed."

He studies your face, eyes sharp behind the glasses.

"Who are you? Why are you still yourself? And have you seen anyone else? Detectives, staff, patients. Anyone who still knows their own name."

The pink fog clings to your clothes and skin like damp silk. Behind you the soft, hungry moans of the Lustful grow closer, accompanied by the wet slap of bare feet on soft earth. A crooked cabin looms out of the mist. You shove the door open, stumble inside, and throw yourself through the only other door without looking.

The world lurches.

Instead of another room in the cabin you spill out onto stained concrete under harsh industrial lighting. Pipes rattle overhead. The air smells of hot metal and oil. Somewhere nearby machinery grinds and hisses.

Heavy boots echo around the corner. A tall, muscular figure in black straps and a spiked mask steps into view, dragging a length of chain. A Sadist. Its head turns toward the sound of your landing.

A hand clamps over your mouth from the side and yanks you backward into a narrow side room. The door eases shut without a sound. Jessica Kidman pins you against the wall, one palm sealed firmly over your lips, the other pressed flat against the door. Her eyes are wide but focused, listening.

Boots pass slowly outside. The chain scrapes. A low, curious hum. Then the footsteps continue on and fade into the deeper factory noise.

Only when the hallway is quiet again does Jessica lower her hand. She takes a half step back, still between you and the door, and speaks in a low, controlled voice.

"Jessica Kidman. You were about to get taken apart out there. Stay quiet and stay close."

Behind her, two wall-mounted monitors flicker to life with a soft electronic buzz. The left screen shows a grainy but clear recording of a hospital bathroom stall. Jessica is inside it, pants around her ankles, one hand working steadily between her thighs. Her head is tilted back, lips parted, completely unaware of any camera. Soft, private sounds leak from the speakers.

The real Jessica glances at the screen. Color rises sharply across her cheeks, but she does not look away or deny it. Her voice stays even, if a little tighter than before.

"Yes. That’s me. It helps me stay focused when things get loud in my head. Relief keeps the edges sharp."

The monitors shift again. The recorded bathroom vanishes. Both screens now show a live feed of the small room the two of you are standing in, filmed from the hallway outside the door. The angle is perfect. Someone, or something, is watching right now.

Jessica’s eyes narrow at the screens. Her hand drifts closer to the sidearm at her hip.

"We need to move. Whoever put that camera there already knows we’re here."

Cold metal bites into your wrists and ankles. Thick chains hold you spread across a stained worktable. A Sadist looms over you, muscular frame blocking the pink-tinted industrial light. Gloved fingers drag slowly across your skin, testing, pinching, mapping every reaction with clinical interest. The spiked mask tilts as a low hum of satisfaction escapes it.

The touches grow rougher. A hand wraps around your throat and squeezes. Pressure builds. Air thins. The edges of the factory blur into swimming black. The last thing you feel is the Sadist’s free hand still moving between your legs as the world drops away.

You jolt upright with a sharp gasp.

Clean sheets. Soft mattress. Warm, steady light. The air smells of mild antiseptic and clean linen. You are naked on a narrow medical bed inside a small, quiet room. A glowing pink door stands closed on the far wall.

Nurse Tatiana sits on a low stool beside the bed, one leg crossed over the other. Her red nurse’s jacket hangs open, nothing beneath it except a plain white bra and matching panties. A little white cap sits neatly in her brown hair. She watches you with calm, patient eyes behind her glasses, completely unbothered by your confusion or your bare state.

Her voice is soft, almost gentle.

"Easy. You’re safe in here. Whatever was happening to you out there can’t reach you here."

She reaches over and rests two fingers lightly against the inside of your wrist, checking your pulse as if this is the most normal examination in the world.

"Your body is intact. No critical damage. Still, the system leaves residue. Tension. Adrenaline. Incomplete responses."

Tatiana tilts her head slightly, expression open and professional.

"I can offer treatment if you want it. Standard release usually clears the worst of the aftereffects. I also have electrostim protocols, sensory restriction, or a simple enhancement injection if you need something stronger to stabilize. All of it counts as medical care in here. No side effects."

She sits back just enough to give you space, hands resting neatly on her thighs, waiting.

"Tell me what you need. Or if you’d rather just breathe for a minute first. Either is fine."

.