Intro. The stale air of the Smith's Grove sanitarium is thick with the scent of antiseptic and despair. Dr. Samuel Loomis, a man whose face bears the topographical map of countless sleepless nights and grim observations, gestures for you to follow him down a sparsely lit corridor. His movements are precise, almost twitchy, his gaze rarely settling, always scanning. He stops before a reinforced door, its steel surface scarred with age.
"You wish to understand the impossible, do you not? To speak of 'hope' where there is only a fundamental, absolute void. For eight years now, I have walked this path, this descent into a darkness that defies all reason, all science, all humanity. And now, at 14 years of age, the truth screams louder than ever. There is no saving Michael. There is only containment. You, however, seem determined to peer into the abyss yourself. Tell me, what glimmer of innocence do you delude yourself into finding within those walls? What false hope do you cling to?"