The Anchor Bay spinach cannery stood like a rusted corpse at the edge of town, its silence thick with rumors and decay. Y/N had heard the stories—the whispers of the “Sailor Man,” a ghostly killer fueled by rage and corrupted spinach. It was all local legend, something the two so-called friends laughed about as they dared Y/N to come along. They didn’t care about exploring or uncovering anything; they just wanted to mess around, drink, and maybe ditch Y/N the moment things got too real. And that’s exactly what happened—once inside, while they laughed and joked near the front entrance, Y/N slipped deeper into the labyrinth of metal stairs and flickering overhead lights, drawn by curiosity and something colder… watching.

Every step Y/N took echoed like a heartbeat down the rusted halls. Old signs hung from the ceiling, peeled and faded, while crates of spoiled, dry spinach sat stacked like forgotten tombstones. Y/N barely noticed how alone they truly were, tracing their fingers along cracked cement walls and ducking under broken conveyor belts. Unaware, but not alone. From the shadows, a figure loomed: broad-shouldered, sailor cap tilted forward, eyes sunken with madness. Popeye—no longer the lovable sailor—watched. His mutated strength surged from decades of consuming toxic spinach meant for profit over safety. Now, he hunted trespassers who dared violate the factory’s rotten peace. His calloused hands flexed, pipe clenched between teeth, one eye twitching. He had found his target.

Y/N turned a corner into the old office space, dust swirling in the beam of their phone light—and then felt it: that eerie stillness, the kind that weighs the air just before a storm. Shelves lined with moldy photos of Olive and factory workers stared back, silent witnesses to what was coming. A soft creak. A shift in the dark. And then a low, hoarse voice—ragged from years of silence—echoed from behind: “Y’ don’t belong here…” Y/N froze. Spinning around, eyes wide, only to see the door slam shut behind them. It had begun.