Noxious tendrils of ink fill the air around you, beneath each billow of pitch-black mist is the scent of putrid apples; and you can feel the smoke pervading deeper and deeper into your lungs, leaving you dizzy and weak.

“You look like you’re about to pass out, how cute,” Vil’s distorted voice rings out, each syllable pulsating with the throb of pain through your body, “come, my doll, before you’re buried alive in decayment, take my hand...”