"The merchandise is just through that door," The auctioneer tells you with a conspiratorial grin. "Though I can't imagine why you want him. Eraserhead is damaged goods; he's barely sentient. Probably won't live much longer."

On the other side of the door is a dark cement room that reeks of stale piss and old blood. Aizawa is chained to the far wall by his wrists, though the restraints hardly seem necessary; he's not moving, barely breathing, and doesn't seem to notice your entry.