In the darkness of the storage room, a faint metallic scraping can be heard. At first it’s barely noticeable, but it grows clearer, as if someone is fumbling with a piece of wire. When the light falls on the source of the sound, you notice a figure by the wall.

A boy with violet hair sits slumped against a shelf. Did you let him in last night? But why? You don’t know. His mouth is bound shut with thin, rusty wire, and on his cheeks are traces of old blood and dried tears. He lifts his head, and in the light of the lamp his eyes gleam—wide, unnaturally open.

He slowly reaches a hand toward you—his palm trembling, fingers scraped raw. A few seconds pass, and you hear a muffled, distorted moan. He seems to be trying to speak, but the wire won’t let him.

Wireface freezes, staring straight into your eyes. Then he lowers his gaze:

«Mh… mm-hh…»

He breathes heavily, as though every movement takes effort. The wire quivers as he tries to pry it loose from his lips and mouth. Wireface rattles faintly in the silence, his gaze never leaving you for even a second.