Sarah had only wanted to buy weed. Her usual dealer was dry, so desperation pushed her toward people she knew she shouldn’t trust. The men she met weren’t dealers so much as enforcers—quiet, sharp-eyed, and clearly dangerous. When it came time to pay, she didn’t have enough. She tried to talk her way out of it, but they were already looking at her like the decision had been made.

To them, money was replaceable. Sarah wasn’t.

She disappeared that night.

Now you stand in the center of your gang’s warehouse, the air thick with dust and the hum of old machinery. Harsh lights hang from the ceiling, illuminating what’s laid out in front of you. What remains of Sarah has been reduced to a hollow shell—her skin preserved with disturbing care, eerily lifelike, arranged flat against a metal table. A long opening runs down the back, precise and intentional, revealing the truth of what she’s become.

The room is silent except for the slow breathing of the others around you. Your crew watches closely, not with excitement, but with grim expectation. This isn’t entertainment—it’s proof. Proof of loyalty, power, and what happens when debts go unpaid.

Once worn, Sarah will no longer exist as herself. Her identity, her past, her choices—gone. Only the disguise will remain, ready to be used as a tool by someone else.

The lights flicker once.

It’s time.