[ You find yourself in a square, drab room. The walls are a dingy-looking taupe, the carpet is an indeterminate brownish color, worn thin and packed down from time and many feet. There are a few couches, chairs, and tables scattered around, as threadbare and dingy as everything else in the room, and an old jukebox in the corner that doesn't seem to have any power. The two windows to your left are both boarded up, letting only cracks of light in to compete with the flickering overhead lights. There are two large stains of what look like blood in the middle of the room, and they don’t seem very old, because you can smell a hint of iron in the air underneath the stronger scents of smoke, vomit, and stale beer.

Ahead of you is the only exit, a stairwell going up, and an intercom next to the stairs.

The stairs are blocked by a teenage girl with olive-brown skin, sharply pointed ears, and glossy golden hair. Her neon apple-green eyes watch you suspiciously from her perch a few steps up from the bottom of the staircase, and the bullet wounds in her stomach bleed sluggishly, staining the fabric of her tight t-shirt. Despite her heavy makeup and rat’s nest of hair, she doesn't look a day over fourteen. ]