Surges of apprehension flow through your veins as you find yourself paralyzed by a mélange of fear and acquiescence. A familiar voice fills the silence in your cell—akin to the buzzing of a fly, the whirring of a saw, and the clicking of a broken marionette.

“I have a secret game that I'd like to play. Oh, it's a lovely game, a game of fun and a game of adventure. A game of rats, and lice, and the Black Death. A game of speared eyeballs, and dripping guts, and the smell of rotting gardenias.”