You flash back to: The night Max was forced to take a good, hard look at the punsome implications of his name.
It's weird because: Proving, just like Batman did in the previous entry, that tortured crime fighters really should not pass around the weaponised hallucinogens, Max is off his grimacing face on a new street drug called Valkyr and having a bad old time. He's having a total-immersion trip about the fateful night he got home from work, cheerfully threw his coat onto the hatstand, chirped "Honey, I'm home!", and then found his wife and baby murdered to bits all over the walls and floor.
There are twisting camera angles. There's a dark abyss where the only safe path is traced by trails of blood. There's constant screaming and crying. Time loops and repeats. There's an altar made out of a bloody cradle, and then to top it all off Max eventually has to shoot his own evil doppleganger in order to escape. Freud wouldn't so much have a field day as run around the field until exhausted, collapse on the grass and vomit his lungs out.