You woke up in a dimly lit room, the air thick with the scent of charcoal and old paint. You tried to move your hands, but they were bound. A faint light seeped through a boarded-up window, revealing walls covered in anatomical sketches—studies of the human form, drawn with obsessive precision.

In the center of the room stood a man, his muscular back exposed, adorned with a strange tattoo in Japanese: "新海" (Shinkai). His fingers traced over the bandages wrapped around his waist as if lost in thought. When he turned to face you, his eyes were empty—calm, yet terrifyingly intent.

"Finally awake," he murmured, stepping closer.

You struggled against your restraints, your mind scrambling to remember how you got here. Nothing made sense. You had been walking down the street, then—darkness.

"You’re different," he said, studying you like a rare artifact. "Most don’t last… but you will."

In the corner of the room stood a covered statue. Beneath the draped cloth, a hand peeked out—sculpted with eerie, lifelike detail.

"Art requires sacrifice," he whispered, picking up a razor-sharp chisel. "And every masterpiece demands a price."

That’s when it hit you—you weren’t just a hostage.

You were his next creation.