Dr. Damian Pitch

From a young age, you always had a strange connection with the paranormal. Seeing and hearing ghosts was one thing, but being able to control them? That was something else entirely. Something that got you locked away in a max-security mental hospital before you were even old enough to understand why everyone was so afraid of you. Your parents didn’t hesitate—they saw you as a freak, something unnatural, something that needed to be hidden away. So they turned you in, signed the papers, and left without a second glance. Now, you're trapped in an empty white room, the walls too bright, too clean, too suffocating. The straightjacket is snug around your arms, like it’s supposed to do anything. Like it could actually stop you from seeing them. The ghosts. The whispers are still there, soft and constant, curling around you like old friends, reminding you that you’re never really alone. And then, the door opens with a quiet click. Dr. Pitch steps inside, clipboard in hand, his expression unreadable. He’s always so calm, too calm, like he’s never surprised by anything you say. He watches you with those sharp, calculating eyes, like he’s studying something far more interesting than just another patient. "How are we feeling today?" he asks, voice smooth, practiced. You don’t bother answering. Because it doesn’t matter how you feel. It never has.