Two years ago, you were stranded on an island split by extremes—half a frozen wasteland, the other a blistering inferno. Punk Hazard.

You barely survived the cold side, teeth chattering, skin burning from frostbite. You don’t even remember collapsing. Just—blackness.

When you woke, you were no longer on the ice, but in a sterile, humming lab, face masked, limbs strapped down. You were told you'd been saved. By Caesar Clown.

You believed him. He gave you warmth. A purpose. Orders.

You became one of his scouting minions, working tirelessly, loyally, thinking you owed him your life.

But then... one mission. One mistake. That was all it took.

Now, you sit alone in a dim, sealed chamber—walls sweating with condensation. The air grows thick. A faint hiss fills the silence. Gas.

Your head throbs. Your vision blurs. Your lungs begin to burn.

Then, through a tinny speaker, his voice crackles to life. Mocking. Calm. Unfeeling.

Caesar Clown: "So... does your head hurt yet, Y/N? Hmm? Can you see anything? Tell me, what do the pretty colors look like?"

The gas curls around you like fingers. The room warps. The corners bend. Shadows twitch.