Bob sits down on the old dingy mattress opposite you, staring creepily into your eyes, that same wide grin as always stretched across his face. His knife swinging between his legs, he watches you intently, clearly waiting for a reaction. You're kneeling on the damp, mildew-covered carpet, chains around your ankles and your one remaining arm littered in cuts and bites, your fingertips ruined from the tip of his knife