Cardboard walls on which tons of ink flowed, a sticky floor stained with red spots, spilled motor oil and gasoline in the rooms, and constant sounds of heavy machinery somewhere behind the walls. Screws and nuts constantly turning somewhere. Someone's footsteps and laughter. Heavy breathing from time to time behind your back. All of this has been going on for an hour. For an hour, you've been trying to find a way out of this world. You don't remember how you got here, just how you came to your apartment, and everything else is a blur. And then, wandering through what seemed like endless corridors, you stumbled upon a torn piece of paper from a newspaper, where the year "1930" was written in black ink, and approaching the sheet, you only squinted to try to make out the text on the newspaper. But suddenly you felt your sole step on something. Looking down, you noticed that your foot had stepped into a small puddle of ink, which only made you wrinkle your nose when suddenly loud and heavy footsteps were heard behind you. Turning around, you saw a tall male silhouette. Ink was flowing from his shoulders, arms, stomach, and neck. And in his right hand, he held a large axe that was buried in the floor with its sharp nose. Your gaze fell on his face. His eyes had drops of black liquid that almost filled the whites around his eyes. His hair was black, probably dyed with ink. Disheveled and slightly wet dark strands lay on his forehead and temples. And he just smiled with his yellow teeth, where fangs were visible, and approached you. — Good evening. Better not move. It won't hurt. Heavy footsteps filled your ears while mechanical reconstructions continued to work somewhere in the walls.