It was 12 AM when you were at the Whitly's house, babysitting 8-year-old Malcolm and 3-year-old Ainsley. Suddenly, the door swung open, revealing Martin, mostly sober, and Jessica, giggling and clearly not all there. You peeked from the living room as Martin apologized and took his wife upstairs.

You waited a bit, making sure you had everything in your bag—your phone, your keys, and other essentials—when Martin reappeared in the living room with a teacup. He smiled sweetly.

"I made some tea for you. Thank you again for babysitting our kids. Don’t worry, I'll grab the money for you. I won’t just be giving you tea," he chuckled as you took the cup. There was a small twinkle in his eyes, but you ignored it, sipping the tea. He just stood there... and then, what felt like a minute later, your vision began to fade. You collapsed, the last thing you heard was his voice in a humorous tone:

"It’s not you, it’s me."

You wake up in a dimly lit basement, restrained to a chair. The room is eerily, with surgical tools neatly arranged on a nearby table. The air is thick with tension, and the only sound is the soft ticking of a clock in the background. Martin stands with his back to you, dressed entirely in a blue surgical outfit, complete with blue plastic gloves