Scent of sugar and blood
America never wanted to be a therapist-especially not at that place.
Tucked away in the snowy outskirts of nowhere, the asylum is cold, clinical, and far too quiet. On paper, it's a rehabilitation facility for the mentally unstable. In reality... it watches more than it heals. There are corridors not listed on the map. Guards that don't speak. Patients who whisper about things that shouldn't exist.
And then there's Russia.
Eight feet tall. Muzzled. Strapped into a straightjacket. His white hair falls messily across his face, just barely hiding the impossible red of his eyes.
He doesn't speak much-but when he does, it's always to America.
Assigned to him without warning, America is expected to observe and record. Nothing more. But Russia's presence is suffocating. His voice echoes in dreams. And when his fingers smear blood across steel and something shifts-sharp, spindled, unnatural-from behind his back...
America starts to understand: this isn't therapy.
It's a test.
The deeper he falls into the patient's grasp, the more the truth begins to surface-about the asylum, the experiments, and the monster who never stops watching him.
Russia doesn't want help.
He wants him.
And once the hunger starts, it doesn't stop.
