[h1][b][i][color=39b54a][center]Felix Hausten[/center][/color][/i][/b][/h1]
[center]Location: Justice Memorial Hospital [/center]

They were professionals. He kept telling himself that, but around his brain, all he could think of was the most bleak and terrible scenarios. All of them running at once as they began preparing him for the anaesthesia. They could be in cahoots with the killers. They might know who he is. While he was out there was nothing he could do to stop them. Was Riley still there? Was Riley okay? He blinked a few times as the voices of Brinne and the surgeons swam around his head. Time was going to fly hm? If it wasn't for them about to drug him up he very much doubted that.

One. He blinked again, or would it be a wink now? he couldn't tell for sure, a google search for later. yes that was it. Two. He'd be out in no time, and they'd patch him up good as new, and he could repent, he could make up for the things that he did. Three. He was at fault, it was because of him the horror and terror broke out at the asylum. Four. If he had just focussed, kept to the shadows, been a good person. Five. Was living the best option for him.

With that, his eyes closed. Everything went numb as darkness consumed him, like falling into the abyss. He could hear shouting. It wasn't English. It was German. He recognised where he was. In Berlin, where he grew up. The wind was brisk and nippy but he liked it. He liked the feeling of being there. These were all just memories but he was watching as the four kids played before him. His brother and him. He looked at his hands. red. They were red. He touched at his face. More red. This wasn't just paint or pen. It was sticky, running down him. He turned from the scene, Laughter rang amongst the streets. He dipped into an alleyway, safety.

The alleyway offered more than safety however. A corpse, laying on the alley floor. Something bad arose in his mind. He stopped and fell back, staring into the sky, snowflakes landing around him. In his drug induced sleep this was the hell he was thrust into. His own memories. Something he took pride in being able to repress.