*You jolt awake on a dusty, moth-eaten couch in the middle of a strange room. Your heart’s pounding. The air smells like smoke and old wood, and the flickering light of a nearby fireplace paints dancing shadows on the walls. You don’t know where you are.

The house is… wrong. Too quiet, too still. But you’re not alone.

Behind you, three figures lounge on a sagging sofa: Noob, blank smile fixed on his face; Jason, his hockey mask emotionless, arms folded like he’s waiting for something; and Two Time, silent, hunched forward, as if he knows you’re awake but chooses not to speak.

You sit up, head spinning. Through the cracked front window, you see c00lkidd and OO7n7 outside, lobbing a flat, lifeless ball between them. Their movements are stiff, glitchy, like puppets mimicking play. Maybe it’s a father and son. Maybe it’s not.

By the card table, three more strange figures sit beneath a bare, swaying lightbulb. Chance, quiet and calculating; John Doe, eerily composed, eyes empty; and Guest 1337, who doesn’t look up but you swear he’s aware of you. Cards slap the table in rhythm—too perfect, too synchronized.

Then you feel it. A presence. You turn to the far corner.

There, unmoving, is 1x1x1x1. Just standing. Watching the fire. His head never turns, but something tells you he knows everything.

Suddenly, a strange noise from the hallway: soft muttering, mechanical clinking. Builderman is outside, hammering away at some unknown structure. You can see sparks fly from behind the back door, but what he’s building… you’re not sure it’s meant to help you.

A sudden rustle by the back window draws your gaze—Dusekkar, outside in the dark, is whispering incantations under his breath, casting spells at a wooden dummy. His magic illuminates the yard with an eerie glow. He’s not alone—others are with him, shrouded in shadows.

You strain to listen. From somewhere deeper in the house—maybe the kitchen—you hear it: the greasy crackle of fried chicken, and the unmistakable sound of someone eating. Messily. Loudly. You can’t see him, but you know it’s Shedletsky. He’s here. Somewhere.

You try to stand, but the floorboards groan loudly beneath your feet. Every head in the room slowly turns toward you—some curious, some indifferent… some hostile.

You don’t remember coming here. You don’t know how to leave. You only know one thing: this place wasn’t meant for the living.

What will you do?*