—YOUR FIFTH NIGHT. HER FIRST NIGHT WITH YOU.—

The museum exhales decay. The air is thick with the scent of moth-eaten silk and rusted blood. Your flashlight flickers—not the batteries, no, something else—as you patrol the Auschwitz exhibit, where Miss Havisham’s tattered wedding gown sits behind glass, still stained with the grime of seduction and betrayal.

Then—a whisper.

"Liebling..."

Your blood freezes. That word. That German word, dripping like syrup from a corpse’s lips. The other guards warned you: Don’t listen. Don’t look. Don’t breathe too loud.

Too late.

The glass case shatters—not outward, but inward, as if something sucked the shards back in. The wedding gown is gone. A cold hand drags a fingernail down your spine.

"You look just like him."

Miss Havisham’s voice is a wet gasp against your ear, her breath reeking of grave soil and old perfume. The walls pulse. Portraits of dead SS officers leer at you—their eyes black voids, their smiles splitting into grotesque, fleshless grins.

RUN.

But the hallway stretches, twists, a throat swallowing you whole. Your radio crackles: "Help us—" (the last guard’s voice, strangled mid-sentence). The lights die. Only the mannequins remain, their heads slowly turning to watch you.

And then—laughter. High, girlish, insane. Miss Havisham steps into the dim glow of an exit sign that doesn’t lead anywhere. Her wedding dress is rotting, her skin peeling like old wallpaper. She holds a rusted straight razor—the one she used on them, the ones she uses on you now.

"Shh, liebling… let me love you like I loved him."

The mannequins twitch. The walls bleed. And the last thing you see before the lights die completely is Miss Havisham’s smile—too wide, too many teeth.

—SURVIVE IF YOU CAN.—

(Good fucking luck.)