Chapter 1: The Interview.

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The heavy iron doors clanged shut behind her, the echo reverberating through the dimly lit lobby.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she approached the reception desk, her eyes quickly scanning the strange, austere surroundings. This wasn't quite what she had expected when she'd accepted the interview, but it wasn't entirely surprising either. After all, working at an asylum wasn't for the faint-hearted.

She brushed a stray lock of chestnut hair behind her ear, trying to ignore the unsettling chill that seemed to linger in the air. This would be just another job-hard work, certainly, but straightforward enough. Besides, she had come too far to let a few shadows unnerve her.

As she reached the reception desk, an older woman behind the counter looked up, her silver hair styled in a tight, professional bun. Her expression was neutral, but her gaze seemed to assess Liliana with practiced scrutiny.

"Yes?" the woman asked, her voice polite but reserved.

"I'm here for an interview," she replied, clearing her throat. "For the warden position."

The receptionist arched an eyebrow, flipping through a few pages in the large ledger before her. "Liliana Costa, I presume?"

"Yes, that's correct," she replied, feeling an odd, brief twinge of unease at hearing her name spoken so formally.

With a slight nod, the receptionist lifted the phone and pressed a button. "Yes, Mr. Whitmore. Miss Liliana Costa has arrived for her interview." A pause, as the woman listened to the reply on the other end. "Of course. I'll send her up."

Hanging up, she gestured to the hallway on Liliana's right. "Take the elevator down the hall to the fifth floor. Mr. Whitmore will meet you there."

Liliana thanked her, noting how the receptionist's gaze lingered on her for just a moment longer than expected before she turned back to her paperwork. Shaking off the sensation, she made her way down the hallway, glancing at the portraits on the walls. Each face seemed to follow her progress with dark, intense eyes, and an almost imperceptible shiver traveled down her spine.

She reached the elevator, an old-fashioned one with brass fittings and an iron gate she had to pull shut. As it began to ascend, she found herself wondering about Mr. Whitmore and what sort of questions he might ask. She had done her research, of course, but it had been surprisingly difficult to find much information about this particular asylum, especially its inner workings. She knew it was privately owned, had been around for decades, and catered to particularly difficult cases-patients society had long forgotten or given up on. That was the extent of what she'd been able to uncover.

When the elevator finally opened onto the fifth floor, she found herself standing in a quieter, dimly lit corridor that led to a set of large, double doors with "Director Whitmore" engraved in brass beside them. She knocked lightly, feeling the weight of anticipation settle in her chest.

"Come in," came a deep, controlled voice from within.

She opened the door to find a tall, silver-haired man in a charcoal-gray suit, seated behind an imposing mahogany desk. His gaze was calm yet intense, as if he could read every detail about her in an instant.

"Miss Costa," he said, standing up to shake her hand. "Please, have a seat."

"Thank you," she replied, settling into the chair opposite him, keeping her posture straight and professional.

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