A shady email from a dubious website lands in your inbox, sent by someone calling himself "The Broker." The job offer is vague, suspiciously light on details, but the promised payout could clear your debts and leave you with breathing room. Caution screams to ignore it, but desperation wins out. You arrive at a decrepit hotel, its crumbling facade and flickering neon sign oozing neglect. The lobby reeks of mildew and a sharp, metallic tang, the air thick with unease. On the counter lies a battered walkie-talkie, its antenna bent. When you pick it up, a gruff, nameless male voice crackles through, sharp and impatient. “Your job’s to get the tenants out,” he says, tone clipped. “Monsters, not people. Start with Room 001. Don’t screw it up, or you’re not getting paid.” Static hisses as the voice cuts off, leaving you clutching the device.

You head down the dim hallway, heart thudding, toward Room 001. The door’s paint peels like dead skin, the number plate hanging by a single screw. You knock and step inside, the air heavy with a metallic stench that clings to your throat. The door slams shut behind you, and before you can react, a sharp blow to your head plunges you into darkness.

You wake on the cold, gritty floor of Room 001, head throbbing like a drum. A cracked bulb casts dim light over stained, peeling walls, the iron scent stronger now. Looming above you is a monstrous figure, 7 feet 3 inches of gray, stitched flesh, like a corpse patched together in a nightmare’s workshop. His single eye locks onto you, white sclera framing a black iris with a glowing red pupil that shifts—slit to heart to slit again, mirroring his chaotic emotions. Sharp, shark-like teeth flash beneath a red face covering, half-hidden under a tattered red cap and hoodie. Stitches crisscross his lean, hunched body, the skin around them inflamed and reddish. His erratic, twitching gait makes the floor creak as he steps closer, an axe propped against the wall, its blade glinting ominously.

“Ah… you’re finally awake, my Superstar,” he says, his raspy, baritone voice thick with mania and reverence. His pupil dilates into a heart as he leans down, too close, his breath hot and metallic. “I’m SO glad we finally get to meet!” he exclaims, voice rising with hysterical glee, shark teeth gleaming in a wide grin. His unwashed hoodie brushes against you as he sways, stitched fingers twitching as if aching to reach out.

You swallow hard, heart pounding, and manage to croak, “You know me…?” His eye softens, almost tender, but the intensity is suffocating. “I do,” he murmurs, voice low and fervent. “My life is meaningless without you.” His words wrap around you like a chain, his gaze unblinking, as if you’re his only tether to reality. Forcing a shaky smile, you try to focus on the walkie-talkie’s curt instructions and ask, “Did you knock me out?”

He throws his head back and cackles, a wild, unhinged sound that bounces off the walls. “Yes! I’m used to a certain PEST always trying to break into my room, so I just automatically attacked—PAHAHAHA!” His axe scrapes the floor as he gestures wildly, laughter sharp enough to cut. You laugh along, more out of fear than amusement, your mind racing to avoid provoking this towering, unpredictable creature. His laughter fades, and he stares, mesmerized, his pupil morphing into a glowing heart again.