(I do not own Amnesia: The Dark Descent nor Outlast. They are rightfully owned by Frictional Games and Red Barrels.)

Things just went from fantastic to down-right horrible. It had been a single year since Miles Upsher had risked life and limb, literally, to get through Mount Massive Asylum in one piece and now, he was pitching a fit in his office. Silently. Fuming to himself at the paperwork in his hands, he was quick to crumble it up effectively and then viciously pitch it into the nearby waste bin. How were they serious!?

The reporter had told the damn director and cast to not put him anywhere near any asylum's or supposedly abandoned churches, warehouses—and where did they have him going? To an abandoned hospital, of all fucking places! He was refusing, quite bluntly, to that and with the time being almost 10 o' clock in his state, it was his time to high tail it out of his office, collect his papers and go home. Even now, Miles was missing his fingers from the god-awful bone shears of the Mount Massive Asylum's doctor.

Yes, he remembered it all as he picked up the paperwork from his desk and shut down his laptop. No pain medication around and being strapped to a wheelchair, Miles had confronted Death too many times. But the doctor was dead and Miles had almost died himself. …But somehow, he had survived despite the bullets that had been thrown into him like a naturally born target practice board. No. Somehow he crawled out of the damned hellhole and lived. Somehow.

Those nubs for fingers worked well despite their lack of range and length, and it didn't take him long to storm out of the vicinity, grumbling to himself. There was no way he was going to risk his life, AGAIN, just to get footage of some ghosts or old patients forever wandering the area in search of their soul or body. God forbid. The asylum was enough. How he had a sane mind intact was beyond his knowledge.

Hopping into his car, Miles was soon swerving off back home, allowing himself to cool down as he remembered about how much filing he had to do after his last report on a murder in the next road over. Fire dying down in his head, the reporter managed a long and slow sigh, allowing his head to momentarily hit his steering wheel. A moment couldn't hurt, right?

He looked back up soon enough and was letting out a cry of surprise as he jerked his wheel automatically over to right, avoiding a semi that had swerved out of his own lane. Miles made the worst move as he felt his car somersault down a hill and into the nearest river.

People were frantic. The car was in complete pieces, the windows broken, the steering wheel twisted and the metal squished horrifically in several places. A young man came towards one of the chief officers, panting heavily. "S-Sir! Sir!" The gruff man looked over, quick to wrinkle his nose. "What is it, boy? Come on, spit it out!" Breathing in deeply, he coughed once, and then complied. "There's no body."

Daniel raced onward, lantern in hand and his poor heart racing at the speed of sound. Sweat dripped over his skin and tickled the back of his neck as he darted from room to room. Behind him was something but he didn't dare turn to look back and give it time to catch up. Blowing out the lantern, continuing to race at a surprising speed, he opened the nearest closest door, hopped on in and shut it behind him.

Breathing heavily, Daniel pressed himself against the wall of the wardrobe that kept him safe, hearing the damned thing—pass by? But that didn't make him have any heart to leave. At all. Swallowing dryly, Daniel slid down the wall slowly and hit the bottom of it, allowing him to finally get comfortable as he hugged his knees. Lantern still in his grasp, the male pressed his sweat-coated forehead into them, waiting for the feeling of threat to pass. Only when his heart calmed down and his fingers stopped quivering did he finally stand up and make his way to the doors.

Ever so slowly did he push them open, examining the outline of the room with the bed, curtains, drawers and even the carpet before he decided it was alright to step out. Ah, the hallway on this floor was clear and he still had to look for Alexander. Having finally remembered his own destiny, the effects of the potions had finally worn off and all he had to do was find the pieces of the damned orb and put it back together. Alexander was the man he needed to kill now.

Or did he? What if it was all a lie to himself? Ugh, here he went again, asking questions. Running a hand over his face, he stepped out into the hall then immediately turned back into it. Damnit! Why did he forget his lantern? Opening the doors to the closet once again, he moved a hand in to try and find his only light source in this god forsaken place but he then paused.

"Where the hell-?" Disappeared into a black abyss, the lantern had. Tipping his head to the side, he opened both doors and leaned forward. A scent caught his nose and it was almost familiar. No, it was familiar. Flowers? …No, it was special.

A hand suddenly settled on his back and pushed him into the closet, causing the male to flail and accidentally shut himself in. But he didn't land, no, he did the opposite. He fell into the darkness that suffocated him and Daniel suddenly realized what the smell was; Damascus roses from the one man that forever trapped him in Brennanburg.

"Alexander!"

Said male watched the doors close to the wardrobe and shuddered at the feel of someone's chin resting on his broad shoulder. "Is that what you desired, Shadow?"

"Mm, yes~. To Hell he goes and it now leaves you and me for a fight." Alexander snarled and abruptly walked away, not daring to show the unease in his stomach thanks to its presence.