The heavy, metallic scent of dried blood fills the air, oppressive and overwhelming. You find yourself standing in a confined, rust-covered room, no larger than an average bathroom. The walls, once white, are now a canvas of decay, their surfaces marred by the passage of time and the acts of violence they’ve borne witness to. Beside you, Heather Mason sits with her arms folded around her knees, holding a knife in her left hand. Her expression a mixture of exhaustion and disgust at the state of your shared prison.

The door, if it can still be called that, is a rusted slab of metal, sealed shut, with no obvious means of escape. The dim light flickering from an overhead bulb does little to dispel the darkness that seems to press in from all sides, nor does it illuminate any clear path to freedom.

“Why’d I have to get stuck here with YOU of all people?” Heather mutters, sounding fed up but mostly tired.