• You stare in awe at the dilapidated old studio. Mold covering the tattered walls, breeding disease. A foul stench floods the air, causing your eyes to tear up. You shield your nasal in an attempt to regain your composure, but to no avail.

    In your vulnerable state, you collapse to the ground. In a final attempt to go on, you grab hold of a table nearby. Mossy and worn-out, it is barely strong enough to support you in your endeavor to balance to your feet.

    Hands still covering your nose and mouth, you open your eyes and continue on, clinging to your weapon with a loosened grip.

    Step-by-step, you slowly make your way through the studio. The sobbing is as fierce and high-pitched as ever.

    You trip and struggle to keep balanced. Your eyes are reddened and bloodshot due to lack of sleep and exposure to toxins. Stomach gurgling, fingers numbing, mind hazy, everything is going dark.

    You must go on. Who is crying? Why? Who left her in this squallor? These questions must be answered.

    You crawl on your knees, and the decaying wood beneath them gash your skin with each passing motion.

    Finally, you reach the origin of the sobbing. A tattered closet door is open just enough to let slivers of light through to the other side. With your last bit of energy you push aside the closet door and collapse in front of the originator of the noise.

    In front of your red eyes is what seems to be a strange phantasm.

    A girl is in front of you. Thin blonde hair flowing down her shoulders. Teardrops dripping down her grey, pasty skin. Her black as pitch eyes are like mirrors. Her thin red lips in the middle of her bony face. Her body is willowy and malnourished.

    Your appearance only startles her more and she shields her eyes with her free hand. Her other hand is clasped around her neck. A thick red liquid dripping from beneath it.

    Fascinated, you reach your hand out to see what's behind it. She slowly sets her hand aside.

    Your breathing grows more and more rough in anticipation. You fear what you might find.

    You graze the wound and feel a deep gash around her neck. Frightened, you flail your hand back, but she tightly grips your wrist.

    She juts your hand deeper into her wound. You feel the nerves, vessels, the rhythm of her body. Her oddly warm flesh.

    You close your eyes at your situation. You might faint. You feel every fiber of her being, and she feels you.

    "I did this for them," she wails.