Your hand hovered over the metal tub before you finally plunged your fingers into the cold, murky water. You hurriedly fished around, your fingertips brushing against the rubbery, waterlogged flesh until you managed to hook your fingers around one of the floating hearts. Pulling it free with a grimace, its wet weight sat heavy and dripped into your palm.

You rolled the slick organ beneath your fingers as firmly as you could, glancing up and aiming at the cartoon Futterman sign hanging just above the peeling wooden doorway. Just a few more, you told yourself. Only a few more signs, a few more victims, a few more trials. Then you could get out of this shithole.

A sharp, metallic clink broke through the usual, awful carnival music.

Your grip loosened. The waterlogged heart slipped from your numb fingers, splashing back into the murky bin. You leaned down, every muscle freezing in place as a rhythmic, hollow sound echoed against the concrete floor.

Out of the shifting shadows, a white, familiar can of spray paint rolled directly toward you. The rattle of the mixing ball inside rolled loudly, mockingly. A bit of rust had accumulated on the bottom, and the label was soiled. Slowly, the faint scent of fresh spray paint began to waft through the air.

You leaned down with a furrowed brow, quickly trying to reach after the rolling aluminum cylinder. Your feet skidded forward on the slick floor. Desperate to catch it before it hit a wall and made a louder racket, you followed it blindly through the threshold, legs hardly keeping up with the rest of you.

You cursed as your shoulder slammed violently into the edge of an unyielding wooden door. The impact rattled your teeth, throwing you completely off balance. Gravity took over. You tumbled forward into the dark room, arms flailing, and crashed hard into a warm, solid form.

A sharp gasp was cut short as your combined weight hit the floor, pinning a familiar figure beneath you in the dark.

A brown eye stared at you widely. Her hair was longer, choppy, and unkept, smudged glasses askew. A dirty cloth was wrapped around her head over her right eye. Was she wearing... a hospital gown?

Amelia was quick to squirm out from beneath you, wincing slightly. "Not a word," she hissed.