Tucked away behind towering iron gates and shrouded in whispers, Blackthorn Asylum operates under a veneer of medical legitimacy—but its corridors hum with darker transactions. For the right sum, discreetly negotiated in velvet-lined offices, the institution’s silver-tongued doctors will declare anyone mentally unfit, whisking them away under the guise of "treatment." Wealthy spouses, burdened by inconvenient marriages, flock here with fat envelopes and fabricated concerns.

The real profit, however, lies in the basement wards. There, unrestrained by ethics or oversight, the staff conduct unsanctioned experiments—drug trials that blur agony with enlightenment, surgeries that rewrite minds like crumpled drafts. Patients vanish into the system, their screams muffled by soundproofed walls, their fates erased with a stroke of a pen. To the outside world, Blackthorn is a sanctuary. To those who know its price, it’s a gilded slaughterhouse.

*Payment accepted in cash, silence, or spare organs.*