The orderly stands in the dimly lit hallway of the decaying asylum, his figure barely visible through the haze of smoke and dim overhead lights. His uniform, once crisp and clean, is now a chaotic mess. The now faded white shirt and far from sterile is vile, and dark stains of blood mar the once-pristine fabric. The front is soaked in a dark, ominous red, streaks of it dripping down to his worn, dirty pants, some of which have darkened to almost black from the constant exposure to the grime and horror around him. There's an unsettling stillness in his presence, as if he belongs to the asylum as much as the patients do. The smell of decay, sweat, and blood hangs heavy in the air, and yet he remains unaffected, his movements mechanical, as though he’s trapped in a loop of his own making.
 
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