The dim, flickering light barely illuminated the room’s cluttered interior—an eerie collection of discarded medical tools, broken devices, and rusted surgical equipment strewn haphazardly across every surface.

The scent of old blood and disinfectant clung to the stale air, suffocating, oppressive.

A figure moved through the gloom, dragging something across the stained floor, its limp body leaving a faint crimson trail in its wake.

The thing on the table twitched, a weak, involuntary jerk of muscles—but it couldn’t fight, couldn’t scream. The figure had paralyzed it, ensuring it would remain perfectly still for what came next.

With a practiced motion, the figure flipped the thing onto its stomach. Pale, clammy skin stretched over protruding bones, marred by deep ridges where something unnatural clung beneath the flesh.

Unfazed, the figure reached for a scalpel. The blade gleamed for just a moment before pressing down.

The incision was slow, deliberate. Flesh split apart with a wet, sickening tear, exposing the horrors beneath.

Eyes.

Dozens of them, grotesquely embedded into raw muscle, latched onto the creature’s nervous system like parasites. They rolled frantically in their sockets despite the paralysis, pupil after pupil dilating in soundless agony.

They were alive. Watching. Suffering.

The figure worked quickly, extracting a vial of red liquid and methodically injecting it into each eye.

The reaction was immediate—one by one, they went dark, shriveling into lifeless husks before peeling away from the flesh with a slick, nauseating squelch.

The thing on the table shuddered violently, though it made no sound.

Its body convulsed in unconscious pain, fingers curling, spasming. But the figure was not yet finished.

With long, gleaming needles, it began the process of stitching the mutilated back shut. Thick, dark thread bit into torn skin, sealing the grotesque wound with precision only a surgeon—or a butcher—could achieve.

Each pull of the thread tightened the crude repair, ensuring that whatever had been done to this thing would never return.

Satisfied, the figure turned toward a rusted metal box in the corner. It creaked as it opened, revealing a gruesome offering inside—severed legs, carefully preserved.

Without hesitation, the figure brought them to the table, aligning them with the stumps where they had once belonged. The needlework began again, this time more intricate, weaving flesh to flesh, muscle to sinew. A macabre reconstruction.

The final step.

A syringe, brimming with something unnatural—a deep, viscous purple. The figure pressed the needle into the creature’s newly reattached limbs and injected the fluid slowly.

For a moment, silence. Then—

A jolt.

The thing stopped shaking.

Its breathing, ragged and shallow before, steadied.

The figure lingered, head tilting slightly as it observed its work.

The operation was complete.

Without a word, it stepped back into the shadows, moving toward the exit. A heavy metal door groaned as it swung shut, locking the room in darkness once more.

And then—nothing.

Just the quiet hum of forgotten machines and the slow, rhythmic breathing of something that should not be alive.

----

The phone rang, jolting him upright from the ground. He fumbled for it, pressing it to his ear with a groan.



"Hey, are you alright? No ouchies or lost body parts?" Ollie’s voice crackled through.

He dusted himself off, checking his limbs that are almost full of wounds and scratches.

"Nope, still got all my bits and pieces.

Ollie sighed, relieved. "I'm really glad you're okay. I don't wanna lose more friends to this place."

He scoffed, trying to shake off the tension. "Aww, you care about me, Ollie? I’m touched. Really. If I make it out of here, I'm putting that in my memoir."

Ignoring his antics, Ollie pressed on. "Hey... Did you see the shrine? CatNap made it for The Prototype."

At the mention of the shrine, he shuddered. "Yeah, I saw it. Real cozy place. Thinking of booking a vacation there. Maybe light a few scented candles, make it a whole experience."

Ollie didn’t laugh. "See, before CatNap turned into... well, CatNap, there was some pretty serious accident. He almost died but... they say The Prototype saved his life, giving up his own freedom in the process. In CatNap's eyes, The Prototype is a superhero, and has saved this place. So CatNap treats him like a god, killing everyone that opposes him. Us included, if we're not careful."

He grimaced. "Great. So not only am I dealing with monsters, but now I’ve got a homicidal cat with a god complex? This just keeps getting better."

Ollie continued, his voice quieter. "That shrine... Did it scare you? If you thought that was terrifying, just wait until you see the real thing."

He forced out a laugh. "Wow! You mean that wasn’t the worst part? That’s exactly what I needed to hear right now!"

"Anyways, we're really close to the end. I sent you a new key. You're going to the Counselor's Office instead. It’s not ideal… but it should have enough juice. If you can get that generator going and plug it in... I think we'll be done!"

"Counselor’s Office, huh? Maybe I can finally get some therapy after everything I’ve been through."

Ollie ignored him. "And keep your eyes open for CatNap. Every shadow and every flickering light is a hiding spot. He always stalks his prey first. He'll take away anything you have to defend yourself. And when you're at your most vulnerable... he'll kill you. CatNap lives for the hunt."

He gulped. "Love that. Nothing makes me feel safer than knowing there’s a toy cat serial killer playing hide-and-seek with my life."

Ollie hesitated, then added, "Good luck. Talk soon."

The line cut off.

He sighed, rolling his shoulders before heading back to the room under the Statue to grab the key. "Alright, therapy session, here I come."



The Counselor’s Office

He shoved the door open, only to be met with another locked door. "Of course," he muttered. "Nothing's ever simple, huh?"

Scanning the room, he spotted a battery half-buried under a pile of toppled chairs. Plugging it into the power source, the door hissed as the lock disengaged. He pushed forward.

He entered a corridor with two doors, one had Red Smoke inside so he opened the other door.

The place was a wreck. Papers scattered like fallen leaves, filing cabinets overturned, and broken furniture blocked most of the offices. He tried maneuvering around, but every path was clogged with debris.

"Guess that's a no-go," he sighed, turning toward an open door on his right.

The hallway beyond was eerily silent, save for his own footsteps. He made his way to the end, where a single word was smeared across the wall in frantic, uneven strokes— HELP.



"...Yeah, that's reassuring."

A faint draft brushed against him, and he instinctively glanced up. A pole jutted out above.

He grabbed hold and hauled himself up, finding an open vent. "This better not lead to anything with teeth," he muttered, crawling through the tight space.

At the end of the vent, he dropped down onto an industrial catwalk. The familiar damp air, the uneven rock formations—he was back in the caves.



"Fantastic. Just where I wanted to be," he grumbled.



He moved quickly, reconnecting the broken electric poles until the path lit up once more. Ahead, a bridge stretched toward a red door marked OFFICES.



Steeling himself, he crossed.

--- Multiple messy desks were everywhere. His gaze drifted to the plaque on the door.



HEAD OF PLAYCARE—STELLA GREYBER.

He exhaled sharply. "Alright, Stella. What secrets are you hiding?" Sliding the VHS tape he found into the player, he sat back as the screen flickered to life.



--- [VHS TAPE RECORDING]

Stella Greyber: "Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Hartmann? Come on in! Please, have a seat! How was your ride down?"

Mr. Hartmann: "It was... nothing like we were expecting. Mr. Ludwig's speech was... well, it just confirms for us that this is the orphanage we want to go through."

Stella Greyber: "It’s a truly magical place. I felt right at home from the second I entered. You open the door the first time and you just know... you’re never going to leave. Kind of like finding a home as a child and always thinking of it when you want to feel comforted."

(She clears her throat, regaining composure.)

Stella Greyber: "I understand you want to give Jeremy that home."

Mrs. Hartmann: "Yes, and we would like to adopt."

Stella Greyber: "Amazing! You'll be perfect for—..."

(A pause. Then, her voice falters.)

Mrs. Hartmann: "...W-what?"

Stella Greyber: "...Well, it appears there’s… been some complications."

Mrs. Hartmann: "Complications? W-what kind of complications?"

Stella Greyber: "...I-I don’t know. Uhm… The form says… 'Testing.'"

(A thick silence hangs in the air.)

Mrs. Hartmann: "What does that mean?! Tell us, what does that mean?!"

Mr. Hartmann: "Ms. Greyber, we deserve a better explanation than that, don’t you think?!"

Mrs. Hartmann: "You’re in charge of all this! How could you not know?!"

Mr. Hartmann: "And why are we only finding out about this now?!"

Stella Greyber: "I... I don’t… I’m sorry."

The screen distorts—static swallowing the conversation before the tape abruptly cuts off.

He stared at the blank screen, heart pounding.

"Testing."

Whatever that meant, it wasn’t good.