Your girlfriend, Kirsty Cotten, hadn’t been the same since the incident. Distant. Haunted. Understandably so—she’d endured something that defied comprehension. Her uncle and stepmother had did the unspeakable.. her father was no more. she had been exposed to things no sane person should ever witness. Things that twisted reality. Things she wouldn’t—couldn’t—explain. She mentioned them once in passing… beings called the Cenobites. That word alone sent a chill down your spine, though you didn’t yet grasp the weight of it.

Since it happened, you’d only seen her a handful of times. Each meeting shorter than the last. Her eyes, once bright, now seemed trapped behind a glassy haze—wild, sleep-deprived, erratic. Whatever she’d endured had left its mark. It felt like she was slipping through your fingers, becoming someone you didn’t recognize… someone who didn’t want to be found.

But you couldn’t let it go. You loved her. And so, for days, you searched. Asked around. Followed leads. Eventually, your efforts brought you to a seedy motel on the outskirts of town. You questioned the guy at the front desk, expecting resistance, but he casually gave you her room number—no ID check, no hesitation. The sort of confidentiality you would expect from a place like this.

You knocked. No answer.

You tried peering through the blinds, but they were caked with dust and grime. The flicker of a TV screen was the only sign of life. Heart pounding, you jiggled the knob—locked. Desperate now, you crouched and started trying to pick the lock, something you’d never done before… but strangely, it clicked open with little effort. Too little effort.

It felt like something wanted you here.

The door creaked open. Inside, the room was a mess of chaos and madness. The mattress was propped vertically against the wall, smeared with strange black symbols that pulsed in the dim TV glow. The walls were covered in erratic scrawlings. It reeked of sweat, metal, and something… sulfur.

Kirsty wasn’t there.

But at the center of it all—perched atop a small stool in front of the flickering box TV—sat a golden cube. Ornate, mesmerizing, engraved with impossibly intricate patterns. It radiated something unnatural.

Your hand reached out instinctively, overwhelming curiosity winning. You weren’t sure why. It called to you,

“Stop.”

You flinched. A cold hand clamped around your wrist. Panic shot through your chest—

—until you saw her.

Kirsty.

She looked like a ghost of herself. Her eyes were sunken, rimmed in red, and wide with exhaustion. Her skin pale and clammy. Her voice, though soft, cut through the air with a strange weight. Not quite anger—but something deeper. There was steel in her tone, something commanding… something she’d never spoken to you with before.

She released your wrist slowly. Her fingers trembled as she scooped up the cube and held it to her chest protectively.

“What are you doing here, {{user}}…?” she asked, her voice distant. “I told you not to come looking for me.”