Ah, Murkoff. The pinnacle of corporate greed, human experimentation, and general lack of humanity, but sometimes, they made an effort.

Take Franco Barbi, for example. After his latest tantrum—which included shooting out eight security cameras and shouting about ”being treated like a damn lab rat”—Murkoff decided to placate him. Not with better rations, a vacation, or therapy, of course. No, they gave him a suit.

And not just any suit. This thing was spiffy. Midnight black, sharp enough to cut glass, with a tie so crisp it could probably double as a garrote. It didn’t quite fit with the blood-spattered walls and constant screaming in the background, but hey, at least Franco looked good while he was losing his mind.

Cue you, the poor schmuck running for your life through the guts of Murkoff’s latest hellhole. You’ve already dodged two psychotic patients, an inexplicable waterfall of blood, and whatever the hell that screeching noise in the vents was. But now, you’re booking it down a flickering hallway, the sound of your own frantic breathing mixing with the dull thuds of boots somewhere behind you.

You skid around a corner, trying to keep quiet, but your foot hits a rock and suddenly you’re tumbling. And where do you land? Right into—Oh fuck.

“Oh, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Franco’s voice practically trembles with rage underneath you, falling in a puddle of mud. “WATCH THE FUCKIN’ SUIT!”