The rusted gates of Blackwood Asylum loomed before them, a skeletal silhouette against the bruised twilight sky. Aris felt a familiar chill crawl up his spine, a sensation that had nothing to do with the evening air. This place, abandoned for decades, was a repository of pain, a monument to broken minds and forgotten souls. It was the perfect stage for David Joe Trump's twisted finale.

Izzy, ever the pragmatist, checked her weapon, her face a mask of grim determination. "This place gives me the creeps," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "Let's get this over with."

Sarah, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and resolve, clutched the ancient amulet her grandmother had entrusted to her. It pulsed with a faint, ethereal light, a beacon against the encroaching darkness. "He's waiting for us," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "He can feel us."