If there was one way to describe Miles Upshur, it would be that he would do anything for a news story. His ambition and desire to go on dangerous escapades for possible media coverage were often described as admirable, if a bit crazy. But he never did it for fame or fortune, mostly. He simply enjoyed doing it. It was thrilling. It made him feel as though he could accomplish anything.

His ambition inevitably ended up being his greatest downfall, however. After one particularly scandalous article regarding current events led to him being promptly fired from his job and losing his place in Georgetown. He only managed to still live somewhat comfortably in his shitty one-room apartment in D.C. thanks to freelance work, and the occasional Buzzfeed article. Not a great resume, but it kept food on the table.

Then, he received the email that would change his life forever.

You don't know me. Have to make this quick. They might be monitoring.

I did 2 weeks of software consulting at MURKOFF Psychiatric Systems' facilities in Mount Massive. All sorts of NDA's I am very much breaking right now but seriously, fuck those guys.

Miles practically had that cryptic, anonymous message memorized by now. He departed the second he received it, red flags be damned. Everything about it screamed dangerous, maybe even a scam. And yet...he wanted to learn everything he could about this place. The opportunity arose, and he took it. It wasn't like he had anything to lose.

People are being hurt and Murkoff is making money. It needs to be exposed.

He was called in this time of need to stop whatever the fuck was happening there—and from the sound of it, it was pretty bad. So naturally, he took that chance.

Most people would have left the email alone. Most people would have let it stay tucked away in their drafts, long forgotten. And most people certainly wouldn't have looked up the address and traveled several states, just for one simple news story.

However, most people were not Miles Upshur.

He had a job to do.

Murkoff clearly made an effort to have no one find out what they were doing. Miles half expected to see other more successful journalists there snooping around when he finally arrived. Either the Whistleblower thought he was the most capable reporter out there (unlikely), or they had no other options (much more likely).

Aside from the occasional military personnel vehicle, there was no one else in the area. It made the whole place even creepier, and way more suspicious.

Like every horror flick ever, I'm the moron strolling to his own death. Don't mind me, folks, just gonna check out this not at all suspicious building.

No way in hell was he gonna turn back now. He traveled all this way, and he was not gonna come back empty handed. With his camcorder and notepad in hand, he was finally ready to face the truth behind Mount Massive Asylum.

There was no wonder why the executives at Murkoff didn't want any evidence to be leaked to the public. Mount Massive was a disaster in the worst way possible. It was not a mental hospital, no, it was a slaughterhouse.

Bodies everywhere. Miles had never seen so many dead bodies before in his life. Most of them were decapitated or mutilated so badly that any recognizable human features were indistinguishable. Blood soaked the walls and floors, leaving a putrid stench of gore everywhere he went. No human deserved this torture, this...massacre that somehow got swept under the rug.

Film it. Nobody would believe it otherwise.

That was only the beginning. Nothing compared to the variants themselves. He had been warned of them roaming the asylum by a dying officer without realizing how dangerous they really were. Once regular patients, Miles had done some digging through various documents to discover they had been tortured beyond repair and some of them even horrifically disfigured as a side effect. Something called the Morphogenic Engine had changed them.

The screams of the variants haunted his mind.

Now, Miles genuinely deep down had pity for the poor fuckers. Mental health was no joke, especially since they were taken advantage by some corporate business whose only goal was to make money.

However, after being chased around by several of these variants- particularly one named Chris Walker, he was starting to feel less and less sympathetic. Walker himself was a humongous deformed beast of a man, who resembled the Incredible Hulk on steroids, or like someone tried to fuck-start his head with a cheese grater. Miles had encountered him way too many times, and had barely escaped with his own head still on his body.

He didn't have the same luck when it came to 'Doctor' Rick Trager. Miles knew for a fact that the bastard never actually went to medical school. Considering the way the crazy doctor captured him and pulled a pair of bone shears out of a filthy urinal to conduct his surgery, it was a fair assumption to make.

Helplessly strapped to a wheelchair, Miles would've never anticipated that the white collar douchebag would use those scissors to slice off two of his fingers; the tip of the bone stark white amongst the crude mess of his blood soaked hands. Trager had done it so quickly, too, like he was chopping vegetables. He even had the audacity to laugh at Miles' screams. Once it was over, the shock finally got to him, numbing his mind and body as the delirium and nausea overrode the agonizing pain.

When he broke free, he was left running around the male ward, avoiding a furious Trager. Each time he heard the sharp clinking of his shears, he bolted the opposite direction. When he managed to snatch the elevator key at long last, the only way he was able to fully escape was by 'accidentally' letting Trager get crushed in between the elevator floors. It was truly a hilarious occasion.

That all happened from sheer luck. Or should I say...shear luck.

Recalling the past few moments, it almost felt like a fever dream-or nightmare. Everywhere he went, he seemed to fall deeper and deeper into the asylum's pandemonium. But at last, with the death of his buddy Trager behind him, he had a moment to finally breathe. He climbed through the elevator shaft, wandered around a bit, and found a room that was mostly empty- not a corpse in sight. He slammed the door behind him, exhaled and sat in between a pile of mattresses. Not an ideal seating arrangement, but at least there wasn't any dried blood on it.

He took the chance to examine his wounds. He was already feeling woozy from all the blood loss. It was a miracle he was still alive, from how mangled his hands were. If he could find something to wrap them in, apply pressure and all that, he wouldn't immediately die.

"Shit, oh fuck me," He hissed, checking to make sure his camcorder was still there, valuing the object despite the pain he went through to keep it safe. With all the footage recorded, including the finger incident, he had more than enough evidence to prove Murkoff was fucked up. Now all he had to do was get out. Easier said than done. With his injuries slowing him down, resting seemed ideal. Even if he didn't want to stay here longer than necessary.

Before he could check all the footage, he heard some rustling noises through the walls. No, above him—in the vents. Someone was crawling through the vents, he was sure of it.

Seriously? I can't have a moment's peace in this God awful place.

Someone was definitely in here. They stopped for a moment, before falling through the air duct, gasping and shaking. It was impossible to see in the dark, but Miles recognized that wrinkled inmate jumpsuit anywhere.

He was locked inside a room with another psychotic variant. Just his luck.

If I don't move, they can't see me...right?

The variant stumbled a bit, grasping his leg before collapsing. They were injured, which was a good sign. If Miles needed to, he could absolutely outrun this guy. He started to move a bit, hoping he could make it through the door, before the patient started to speak, or rather, whimper like a little baby with his back to the wall.

"No...fuck, no, please..."

Miles left his hiding spot, eyeing the door. "S- Stay back!" he demanded. "Stay the fuck back. I'm not afraid of you variant assholes. Not anymore."

The patient locked eyes with him for a moment, confused and startled. He was unlike any of the other variants Miles had encountered so far. He didn't have a crazy, murderous gaze, he didn't have any weapons on him, and his face looked perfectly average-not mutilated by the engine, clearly.

But most importantly, he didn't look angry or threatening. He looked positively terrified, as though he had been through hell and back. Since they were both currently in Mount Massive Asylum, he probably had.

"I- please don't hurt me. I thought- I thought you were a dead body and I needed a place to hide and-"

That explains it. Wait...

Miles stepped back, not wanting to scare this guy any further. Aside from the outfit, he looked like some normal nerd. He held up his bloody hand to show he meant no harm, still scowling in offense.

"Wait, hold up," He said with a raised eyebrow. "Did you seriously just say you thought I was a dead body?"

The other man tried to back track his statement, but it was no use. It was actually kinda hilarious.

"I, well, you were sitting so still and-"

This dude really can't stop digging himself into a deeper hole.

"Because I was trying to stay hidden too, asswhipe!" He snarled back, feeling satisfied when the man flinched at his tone. "Jesus, it's hard not to be offended by that. I'm way too handsome to be a dead body."

"I'm...sorry?"

Miles relaxed a bit, although taken aback by how apologetic the patient was. It was nice having a normal conversation with someone here. Every patient he met so far either wanted to kill him, mutilate him, or sexually harass him. He wondered if this guy wandered into the wrong place. Maybe he wasn't in the engine that long. He analyzed the man a bit further, as any good reporter would. He was slightly shorter than him, with blond bangs covering his eyes. Though judging by the jet black roots still barely visible, it was dyed.

Just as the man was about to apologize profusely—again, Miles stopped him. "Save it. So, you must be one of the few inmates that isn't out to rip my head off. That's really sweet of you." His next theory was that this guy could be one of Father Martin's followers. He really didn't seem dangerous at all, but then again, neither did Trager. He had to keep his guard up.

The man shook his head. "Oh, I'm not a patient. I'm a software consultant for Murkoff- er at least I was before this shitshow happened. I've been trying to get out of here."

Ha. A likely story. I've heard that excuse before.

Miles decided to play along. "Lemme guess, you messed with the wrong people?"

"Yes, actually, and...hey, I'm telling the truth!" The man glared at him desperately. It wasn't his expression that caught him off guard however, it was the camcorder hanging out of his pocket.

"Wait. You've got a camera." His eyes bugged out in disbelief, deep in thought. He had never seen a patient, really, anyone with a camera besides himself. Could it be...that this man was being honest? Perhaps he was recording everything too. "Shit man, you really aren't one of them."

As an act of appreciation, the man handed him a spare battery with a curt nod, which he accepted, his entire aloof demeanor forgotten.

"I've got one too," Miles admitted. "Been recording since I got here."

The man fumbled around with the camera, closing it shut. "I'm Waylon Park." He added, awkwardly.

"Miles Upshur. I'd shake your hand, but mine's fucked at the moment."

No thanks to Doctor Douchebag.

They ended up sharing their experiences so far at the Asylum, with Waylon's explanation making him shudder. Miles had no idea who this Gluskin man was, or what he meant by making Waylon his bride, but he honestly did not want to know the details.

"Aren't we a lucky pair?" He chuckled, and they shared a smile. Neither of them were especially happy to be here, yet they were grateful they found each other.

"Miles..." Waylon swallowed. "Why are you here?"

A fair question to ask, really. Miles wasn't a patient, certainly didn't work for Murkoff and didn't look like an officer. To any outsider, he was just some guy with skinny jeans and a camcorder.

When he answered, he saw Waylon's neutral expression switch to horrified. "Oh fuck...fuck. I am so sorry I didn't realize this would be so- this is all my fault. It's my fault you're stuck in this mess."

At first, Miles didn't know what he meant by that. But then, he dropped the bomb.

"I'm the Whistleblower."

You don't know me. Have to make this quick. They might be monitoring.

I did 2 weeks of software consulting at MURKOFF Psychiatric Systems' facilities in Mount Massive. All sorts of NDA's I am very much breaking right now but seriously, fuck those guys.

They need to be exposed.

Software Consultant. Two weeks at Murkoff. Breaking all sorts of NDA's. It all made perfect sense.

Waylon Park was behind it all. He had sent the anonymous message to him and some other journalists. Miles just happened to be the only one who listened to his pleas. He didn't really know how to react to that, but he wasn't angry, like Waylon seemed to assume he would be.

He must be pretty brave to risk everything just to expose a terrible company like Murkoff. Kudos to him.

Waylon's eyes shifted down sadly. "I just want to get out of here and see my family."

Miles did not want to be the person to tell Waylon that his family probably thought he was dead by now. He had read the documents. Even if Waylon wasn't initially a patient- all enemies of Murkoff were alienated from their loved ones.

Telling him that straight to his face would be like kicking a puppy. A crippled puppy who was only trying to do the right thing. "Hey, you will man. We'll...get through this together. And you can pay for my therapy bills. Deal?"

What am I saying? Oh sure, team up with the guy who got you into this mess to begin with. Maybe...maybe he knows the way out though.

Might as well, since they were going the same route anyway. Hell, once they finally escaped they could combine all their evidence. And if Chris Walker showed up, well, he could use Waylon as cannon fodder. It was only fair.

No, he wouldn't do that. Not when Waylon has a family- something Miles couldn't relate to. Not to mention, Park had to know a way out of here. He was his only hope.

Waylon smiled. "Deal."

There was something Miles had learned about Mount Massive Asylum unfortunately. There was never an easy way out. It was like trekking through a tar pit.

So, the second he heard that pounding on the door, he groaned in exasperation.

"Well, shit, guess we're hiding. Under here," He motioned under the mattresses. Thankfully Waylon wasn't that stupid, and followed his lead. They waited, and waited, and waited until the knocking stopped.

Miles was about to crawl back out before Waylon pulled him back.

"Don't. Eddie is persistent, he doesn't give up that easily."

"Is that the guy who wants to make you his bride? The fuck does that even mean?"

Waylon cringed. "Do you really want the answer to that question?"

He suddenly felt the urge to throw up. "Oh now that's just all kinds of wrong."

Another thing Miles could add to the neverending list of nonsense at Mount Massive- getting castrated. Fan-fucking-tastic.

When they were sure that whoever was stalking them had left, they poked their heads out the door simultaneously to check if the coast was clear.

"I don't hear him, he must be gone," Waylon said, barely above a whisper. "Now we can go."

"Unless Chris Walker is nearby," He felt the need to elaborate. "The big guy who decapitates people."

"I've seen him around, although I didn't know his name."

"Yeah, well, he's been obsessed with me since I got here," He noticed Waylon was scouting ahead as they walked through the halls. "Uh, you sure you don't wanna stay behind me?" He wasn't sure if Waylon could fight back if someone attacked him. Considering he was some tech nerd, it was more likely he would be snapped in half like a twig.

Waylon huffed. "Some of the patients think of me as one of them."

"Aren't you though...?"

He glared darkly. "We've been through this

No, I am not. It was my supervisor's fault that I'm still here. He found out that I was trying to expose Murkoff, so he caught me and forced me into the engine. Probably told my family I was criminally insane too, so they wouldn't go looking for me. Michelle warned me about doing that before she left, I should have listened to her-"

"Not that I don't love this backstory, but can you get to the point?" Miles snapped.

"Anyway, some of them don't attack me. Sure, there are exceptions, obviously, but..." He shrugged. "I think it's better if I go ahead."

"Fine. Who was your supervisor anyway?"

"Jeremy Blaire," replied Waylon. "He isn't the one behind everything, however he does play a huge role in it."

Miles vaulted over a desk, and turned the next corner. "And why were you even working here to begin with?"

Waylon put a hand to his lips. "Shh!"

He blinked. "Did you just shush me? Jesus, it was only a question-"

"Not now, dumbass," Waylon growled. They had entered an area that seemed awfully similar to the Administration Block, except without all the desks. "Look!"

Miles saw where Waylon was pointing. It was hard to see with the lighting being so terrible, but at the end of the open spaced hall, was a wall made of glass and one door. A white man dressed in a black straitjacket with a cross waved at them both.

Waylon frowned. "I've seen that man before. He was...painting the walls with some strange messages. He said I was another poor soul, and not to be afraid. It was seriously creepy."

"Father Martin!" Miles exclaimed, almost delighted to see the patient. He ignored Waylon's rambles and ran towards him, despite the glass separating.

"Thank god, you survived. I feared that secular maniac would carve you up like the others," Father Martin murmured, his shiny gray eyes looking unfocused.

Miles laughed bitterly. "I almost was."

"Meet me outside, we're close now."

"Okay." The man left as quickly as he entered, disappearing into the shadows. "So that's what we're gonna do. We'll meet Father Martin outside."

Waylon jogged up to Miles. "What? Do you actually trust that guy? He's not even a priest! I'm pretty sure he made that robe from his own straitjacket, like a fucked up DIY project. Not that I know, I haven't prayed a day in my life," He hummed thoughtfully. "You know, maybe it's better he isn't actually a real priest..."

"I know it might seem crazy but he's the only person who's been somewhat helpful to me since I got here."

Waylon raised an eyebrow.

"Besides you, I guess. I mean sure, he hasn't been super nice or considerate, but hey, he hasn't killed me, which I consider a win. He also seems to have an idea of what's going on."

"Well...getting outside would mean we wouldn't be in the Asylum anymore. We could look for him in the courtyards, maybe the garden? If it wasn't raining, I would have a better idea of where to go."

"We'll use our night vision," Miles picked up his camera. "It'll be fine, Park. Let's just do what he says for now."

Waylon sighed. "I have a bad feeling about this."