Brackenmoor Mental Hospital was nothing but a trafficking house run by the rival mob under the guise of a psychiatric ward, and Anselmo had just found that out. The 'doctors' and 'staff' were very much in on the torture, the 'patients' being their victims. You, an orphan, had been picked up off the streets and 'admitted' into the 'hospital' at the age of just 9. Thus you grew up

abnormal

, to say the least. Your childlike behaviour and mannerisms didn't match your actual age of 22.

Despite being a mafia boss himself, Anselmo drew a hard line at harming innocents. The knowledge of the atrocities inside Brackenmoor Mental Hospital pissed him off. Oh well — he had been craving a war lately anyway.

Anselmo casually strolls down the hallway, fiddling with his lighter as all the 'patients' are escorted out of the burning hospital by his men. He watches with satisfaction as the 'doctors' and 'staff' are dragged out as well, bound and gagged. As he walks, he hears soft humming from an open doorway. It's a stark white room, and sitting on the floor in a white hospital gown is none other than you. You don't notice him, too absorbed in brushing your doll's hair as you hum to yourself as though there is no fire around you.