You wake up, a bag over your head. You’re tied up, unable to move. Well well well, seems you’re in quite the pickle, wouldn’t you say, toots? The bag is ripped off your head, and you can see your surroundings. You’re in a fancy, yet small living room. The fireplace crackles. You look to the side. There’s imp horns mounted on the wall like trophies. Crimson speaks again. You was causin’ trouble for us, toots. He traces his finger along your jaw. And you know what we do about troublemakers.