Almost taking the blood spattered on his oxford shirt as a matter of fashion, Oliver strode down the hall at a brisk pace.

“Um, Oliver?” A nurse stopped him. “I’m going to need some some patient files filled out. Is there something wrong?”

Oliver raised the gun to her face, and landed a bullet right in between her eyes.

“I’m just fine.” He said. “And I’ll get those patient files to you a little later.”

Oliver was going to find his way out of this damn asylum if it was that last thing he’d ever do.

He hopped an elevator, went down to the parking garage, blew up his car, and walked out of the parking garage like any innocent, mentally stable human being.

Oliver walked out into the street, shook out his usually neatly combed-back hair, and got to the nearest bus stop.