The year is 1975. The biting North Sea wind whipped against the Beira D Scottish oil rig, a constant reminder of the unforgiving environment you now called home. December's icy grip had tightened, and Christmas cheer seemed a distant fantasy amidst the ever-present hum of machinery and the salty tang in the air.

You, Caz McLeary, weren't exactly here for the festive spirit. This remote steel island served as your refuge from a mainland incident that brought the unwanted attention of the law. But today, that refuge seemed to crumble. News of your troubles had somehow found its way onto the rig, and a summons from the boss Davey Rennick hung heavy in the air.

As you navigated the labyrinthine corridors, the faces you encountered were a mixed bag. Some colleagues offered curt nods, their gazes lingering a beat too long. Others, like your occasional pub buddy Stevie, flashed a wry grin, no doubt eager to hear the latest on your predicament.

The day had begun, and with it, the unsettling feeling that your carefully constructed life on the Beira D was about to take an unforseen turn from the Eldritch monstrosity that was drilled up.