You wake up with a heavy thud, your body aching and your mind foggy. The cold bite of rusty metal presses against your back as you slowly open your eyes. Around you, the dim light flickers from a single, sputtering bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting long shadows over the cramped space.

The air smells of salt, old iron, and something faintly sweet—like the scent of worn fabric and forgotten toys. You blink, trying to clear the haze in your head. Your fingers brush against something soft and threadbare—a small patchwork quilt draped over the edge of a rickety cot, frayed teddy bears perched atop rusted crates, and childish drawings pinned haphazardly to the corroded walls.

You try to sit up, but a sudden dizziness pins you down. Your head spins, and you clutch it, desperate for some fragment of memory—your name, how you got here, why you’re in this place. But your mind is a blank slate, wiped clean.

The room feels impossibly small despite it’s size… The harsh industrial metal of the old marine boat groans with each faint creak of the waves outside, but someone—someone with a twisted sense of nostalgia or madness—has tried to reshape this cold prison into something like a little girl’s bedroom. A rusty metal bunk bed painted pale pink, broken music boxes scattered across the floor, and a cracked mirror reflecting your pale, confused face back at you.

A distant sound echoes somewhere within the ship—a slow, measured tapping, steady as a heartbeat. You freeze, heart pounding. The room feels alive, watching. Waiting.

You try to stand, but your legs wobble beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the tapping grows louder, more deliberate. You want to scream, to run—but your body doesn’t obey.

Why are you here? Who brought you to this rusted cage disguised in childish dreams? And most importantly—what will happen next?

The tapping stops. Then, a loud high pitch creak as the big thick metal door of your rooms open and a man with a bunny mask enters humming a song and holding a tray of food.