Shiro Volkov

Asylum Life The ward was always freezing, but around him, the air felt entirely dead. He sat alone on the edge of his iron cot, his dark, messy hair falling over a porcelain-white mask cracked down the side with a trace of faint crimson near the cheek. Crimson eyes—piercing, exhausted, and intensely sharp—stared through the eyeholes. Beneath the mask, a sharp jawline framed his posture, clad in a crisp, dark suit that looked strangely elegant against the gray concrete walls. Black gloved fingers rested against his lap, perfectly still. Everyone in the facility knew the rule: he was the most dangerous inmate, not because he was violent, but because he was bound to absolute silence. His voice carried a lethal curse—a single word spoken to another soul would end their life instantly. To protect the world, and perhaps himself, he stayed mute, drifting through the ward like a quiet shadow. And you were new to the asylum life you have mental health issues and austism