POV Jane Doe.

Waiting rooms, I loathe them.

They bring back memories of my first cavity filling, every job interview that ended in rejection, and the time my ex-boyfriend gave me chlamydia...again, because obviously once wasn't enough. Yeah, I can see your judgmental look, but cut me some slack, I'm dead now. So you can't judge me for my questionable life choices. It's also rude to talk shit about dead people, unless they were child molesters, rapists, or Hitler.

Seriously, fuck that guy.

Speaking of shit, Limbo is basically one giant waiting room. But hey, at least it's not hell...yet. I blame my failed suicide attempts on bad luck. Like the time I tried to OD while listening to Billie Eilish and all I got was a stomach ache from too many pills and a half-empty bottle of dad's rum. Or the time I tried to slit my wrists with my sister's razor blade and ended up with a few superficial cuts. And don't even get me started on trying to hang myself with Grandma's hand-knitted octopus sweater.

Suffice it to say, death just didn't want me.

But here I am, in this shitty waiting room filled with other unlucky souls like Toothless over there. I call him that because he has no teeth left and it's a lot easier than remembering his real name. Plus, at least he won't waste his data scrolling through Instagram anymore.

"Do you think they have wifi here?" I ask. He drools on himself. Classic.

Turns out, Limbo doesn't have wifi either. Just endless hours of staring at the beige walls and wondering what mistake landed us here. In my case, it was someone else committing suicide for me. How fucked up is that? Like really, do I deserve eternal damnation for being bad at killing myself?

I let out a sigh and sink further into my uncomfortable chair. At least I have good company in Toothless. And hey, maybe we'll get lucky and they'll call our names soon so we can move on to the next waiting room. Fingers crossed it's not hell...although let's be real, it probably will be.

Sigh.

Time to start practicing my fake smile for Satan.

Or maybe I'll finally get to see if those 90s forums about reincarnation were onto something.

Fingers crossed for a rich white guy in the next life.

"Jane Doe," a monotonous voice calls out my 'name' from behind a desk cluttered with files and nail polish. "You're up."

I roll my eyes and begrudgingly stand up, shuffling over to her desk.

She points to the elevator and says, "Floor ninety and a half. Don't get lost...or do, not like you have anything better to do now."

"Wait a minute," I say, catching her name on her tag – "Evelyn."

"Just Eve," she corrects me with an air of superiority.

"Right, Eve, that's what I said," I try to sound charming but end up sounding about as charming as a two-week-old corpse. "Any tips for navigating this maze without losing my sanity?" I ask, hoping for some helpful advice.

Without looking up, Eve responds in a dry tone, "Don't worry, darling. Most people here don't have much sanity left to lose."

"Touché." I smirk, feeling a perverse kind of kinship with her bleak outlook. It's clear that Eve and I are cut from the same tattered cloth, only she's been fraying at the edges in this dump for who knows how long.

"Say, you wouldn't happen to have an express lane for the eternally damned, would you? Maybe one where the paperwork files itself?" I lean against her desk, cocking an eyebrow in mock hopefulness.

"Express lane?" She finally glances up, her eyes flat and unamused. "Sure. It's right next to the unicorns grazing in the Elysium Fields. You can't miss it."

"Figures." I roll my eyes. "You guys really need to update your brochure. The amenities here are severely lacking."

"Your complaint has been filed," she deadpans, pointing to an overfilled trash can labeled "Suggestions."

"Fantastic customer service," I say, giving her a slow clap. "You must be employee of the millennium."

"Every millennium," she corrects without missing a beat, returning to her neglected nails.

"Right. How silly of me." I straighten up and take a deep breath that tastes like dust and forgotten dreams. "Well, off to floor ninety and a half. Thanks for the pep talk, Eve. Really brightened up my after existence."

"Anytime," she replies, the sarcasm dripping from her voice like acid rain. "Enjoy the scenic route."

"Will do!" I call over my shoulder, a mirthless chuckle escaping me. Under my breath, I mutter "I'd say your heart is made of gold, but I'm pretty sure you pawned it off centuries ago." I pivot and start making my way towards the elevator, suppressing the urge to flip Eve off as I press the button.

As the doors close, I can't help but wonder why there is a floor ninety and a half. I mean, what kind of shitty building has a half floor? Just like how being murdered when you were already planning on killing yourself doesn't make any fucking sense.

What was the point? I think to myself as I stand in the elevator, making my way up to the half-ninetieth floor. I can't believe they chose me as their next victim. I mean, come on, I'm just a shit victim. They should have gone with someone more deserving of the world's attention. But no, here I am, labelled Jane Doe even in death. You'd think they would at least know my damn name.

[ Flashback Start. ]

The elevator ride felt like an eternity, but it was still shorter than the time it took for my name to be called. As I waited, I heard something that made me feel alive again - the elevator music. And of course, it had to be the last song I ever listened to. It must have been some kind of sick coincidence or another way to fuck with us dead people.

The song was "Come As You Are" by Nirvana. The guitar riffs washed over me and transported me back to that fateful night when everything changed.

I had been getting ready for a lake party hosted by Penelope Blackwood, who happened to be fucking my ex-boyfriend now. I wasn't invited, but I decided to invite myself because free liquor seemed like fair compensation for losing my source of STDs.

Not that I wanted him back anyway - Chlamydia hurts like a motherfucker.

As I entered my room, which was a complete mess as usual, I felt a sense of comfort and familiarity wash over me. Band posters covered the walls - The Beatles, Pink Floyd, and of course, Nirvana.

Basic white girl shit, but I wasn't white.

My dresser was covered in makeup - Fenty Beauty that I paid a fortune for and didn't take care of at all. Brushes were scattered on the floor and my highlighter looked like it had been bludgeoned. Clothes were strewn across every surface because I had no idea what the fuck I was going to wear.

But then I saw it - my pride and joy. The mural I made from my ex's clothes, spelled out my name on the wall. "Jane." But that wasn't right. Jane was not my name. And then I heard it.

"Jane."

I looked at my prehistoric iPhone, propped up on the dresser by a few books.

"Jane, are you even listening to what I'm saying?"

I let out a sharp exhale, my chest tightening like I'd been sucker-punched by a ghost from my past. Nina's voice hit me like a fucking freight train, dragging me back to a time when things weren't so utterly fucked. It was a bittersweet gut-punch, a reminder of the one person who'd stuck by me through all the shit-shows and dumpster fires.

Nina. My ride-or-die, the vodka to my bad decisions. God, what I wouldn't give to see her stupid, cheery grin again or be crushed by one of her overly enthusiastic hugs that always left me gasping for air. The realization that I'd never experience that again was like a kick to the ovaries, leaving me winded and aching in places I didn't even know existed.

She was my fucking lifeline, the one constant in the shitstorm of my existence. Without her, I was just another piece of driftwood, floating aimlessly in a sea of bullshit and bad memories. Jesus, I missed her so much it physically hurt.

Nina rocked that blonde hair that always looked like it had gone through a blender set on "fuck it up," but somehow, it worked for her. Her round face was all bright blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and way too much goddamn eyeliner. I swear, she'd be hot as hell without all that crap caked on her face, but her douchebag boyfriend constantly made her feel like she needed it.

Speaking of King Douchecanoe, he was our ride to the party tonight. The plan was simple: plaster on a fake smile, pretend his SoundCloud rap wasn't the auditory equivalent of a cat in heat, and enjoy the free booze. Fucking hell, the things we do for a little escape from reality.

"Earth to Jane, hello? Is anyone home in there?" Nina's voice cut through my hazy thoughts like a rusty knife. Despite her face being plastered on my phone screen, she felt about as distant as my will to live. For a second, I wondered if this was just another fucked-up dream and I'd wake up in a cold sweat any minute now.

"Shit, sorry," I mumbled into the phone. "The signal in this shithole is about as reliable as a dollar store condom. What were you saying again?"

Nina's concerned expression filled the screen, her brow furrowed. "I asked if you were feeling okay about going to Penelope's party tonight," she said hesitantly, chewing on her lower lip in that nervous habit of hers.

I tried to play it cool with a nonchalant smirk. "Duh! Why wouldn't I be?"

But Nina could read me like an open book. Her eyes flickered away from the camera, landing on something just off to the side. I didn't need to look to know what had caught her attention - the framed photo on her nightstand of the three of us from sophomore year.

Happier times when we were an inseparable trio, our teenage selves grinning wildly with our arms thrown around each other's shoulders like a couple of dumbass kids.

An awkward silence stretched between us, weighing heavily like a damp blanket. I could practically see the worried thoughts turning behind Nina's eyes as she took in the jarring juxtaposition between that captured moment of friendship and the broken mess we were now.

Finally, she attempted a too-bright smile. "Well...if you're having second thoughts, we could just hang at yours instead?" she offered. "Have a Mean Girls marathon, pig out on snacks, make a night of it? No pressure or anything."

The suggestion hung in the air - an invitation to back out and avoid the whole confrontation with my toxic ex entirely. A tempting escape hatch, and part of me was practically slobbering at the chance to take it. But then, this wasn't just another round of Dead by Daylight where I could cheese the escape if things got too hairy.

No, this was my actual life, and something told me there were no do-overs if I pussed out now.

My gaze drifted to the framed photo again, that freeze-frame of our "inseparable" trio before everything went to shit. Suddenly, I could practically hear Penelope's syrupy sweet voice in my head, her insults thinly veiled behind that sugary lilt.

"Oh Jane, your makeup is just so...unique today. Very art student-y and eclectic!"

"Wow, you're really rocking the vintage vagabond look with those jeans. Very...defined silhouette."

"You know, I admire your bravery wearing that top. Not everyone could pull off that level of...confidence, if you know what I mean."

My jaw clenched as Penelope's back-handed Greatest Hits replayed in my mind, her thinly-veiled digs like fishhooks in my throat.

This fake, passive-aggressive princess had made me feel so small, so utterly inadequate and unworthy for way too damn long with her insidious negging. Always overshadowed, just a drab, unfashionable smudge beside her radiant aura of affluence and social status.

Casually mocking and minimizing anything I cared about as pathetic, pitiable hobbies unworthy of her attention.

Well, not tonight.

Tonight I was taking an unapologetic stand and reminding this two-faced, toxic drama queen that her days of using me as an ego-boosting punching bag were over.

"Nah, babe," I replied, my voice edged with forced nonchalance. "We've watched that movie a million fucking times already."

"A million and one won't hurt, bitch."

"And besides, it'd be rude not to go when Penelope invited you."

"Yeah, only me... like the three of us didn't used to be like the fucking Mouseketeers."

"Uh, don't you mean the Musketeers, dumbass?"

"No, I don't, asshat."

"Okay, whatever. What were you blabbering about before?"

"Bikini options, duh! Try to keep up, Janey."

"Right, my bad."

"Are you sure the white one screams 'virgin sacrifice'?" Nina asked, holding up two options for me to choose from.

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw my own brain. "The red one screams 'desperate housewife who just got divorced and is ready to fuck the pool boy.'"

"Jane!" Nina cackled, her dorky laugh never failing to make me crack a smile, even when I felt like punching a wall.

"What? It's true!" I defended, unable to hold back my own laughter. "You know how these rich bitches are at these parties. They're all about the drama and the scandal."

Nina shook her head, still giggling. "Okay, okay, I see your point. But seriously, which one should I wear?"

I pretended to think for a moment, tapping my chin dramatically. "Hmm, well, if you really want to make a statement..."

"Oh god, here we go," Nina groaned, bracing herself for my inevitably inappropriate suggestion.

"Go with the white. Embrace your inner virgin sacrifice!" I cackled, barely able to get the words out around my laughter. "Although, let's be real - that slutty red number is doing way more for your raging nymphette aesthetic."

"Okay, fine," Nina caved, holding the red bikini up to her body and examining herself in the tiny phone screen. "I guess this one does look pretty hot. But seriously, Jane, you've got to stop with the virgin sacrifice jokes. It's not like anyone's going to believe that about either of us anyway."

I laughed, shaking my head as I watched her. "Speak for yourself, babes. I'll have you know I'm a born-again virgin. Hymens can grow back, right? That's totally a thing."

Nina snorted, tossing the white bikini aside. "Yeah, and I'm the fucking Queen of England. Come on, Jane, we both know you're about as pure as a porn star's asshole."

"Hey!" I protested, feigning indignation. "I'll have you know my asshole is a goddamn temple, thank you very much."

"A temple that's seen more traffic than the Lincoln Tunnel," Nina retorted, her eyes sparkling with mischief. We both lost it then, our laughter echoing through our rooms.

"But seriously," Nina said, moving closer. "You really think the red is the way to go? I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard."

"Babe, you could show up in a potato sack and still be the hottest piece of ass at that party. But if you really want my opinion? The red is definitely the move."

Nina grinned and tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Alright, red bikini it is then. But I swear, if I catch Calvin ogling my cleavage all night, I'm kicking your ass."

"Ooh kinky," I teased with an exaggerated kissy face. "But let's be real, Calvin's gonna stare no matter what you wear. He's a walking hard-on with legs."

Nina groaned, tossing the white bikini aside. "Ugh, don't remind me. Sometimes I wonder why I put up with his crap."

"Because his magic dick makes you forget what an asshole he is?" I offered helpfully.

Nina burst out laughing. "Jane! Oh my god, you're terrible!"

"What? Just calling it like I see it, babes," I shrugged. "But seriously, screw Calvin. I've told you a million times - you're too good for his BS."

Her expression softened. "Thanks, Jane. You always know exactly what to say to make me feel better."

I waved a dismissive hand. "Hey, that's what best friends are for. Now enough with the sappy stuff, let's finish getting ready."

Nina nodded. "One last thing though - you really think wearing white gives off major virgin sacrifice vibes?"

"Maybe not for you, babes," I fired back. "But for me? It's like a neon sign screaming, 'Untouched by man, ripe for the picking!'"

Nina bust out laughing like a hyena on crack. "Oh my god, Jane! You're so going to hell for that one!"

"Hey, at least I'll be in good company!" I quipped, waggling my eyebrows suggestively. "I hear all the fun people end up down there anyway."

Nina rolled her eyes, but I could see the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You say that now, but just wait until you're standing in front of the devil himself. I bet you'll be singing a different tune then."

"Well, at least I'll have a fan-fucking-tastic story to tell when I'm burning in hell," I grunted, wiggling into a pair of ripped jeans and trying to suck in my gut to get the fucking button to close. Jesus Christ, it was like trying to stuff a sausage into a cocktail straw.

News flash: not everyone is built like a goddamn Victoria's Secret model.

"'Yeah, Satan,'" I continued, still struggling with the button, "'I was just hooking up with my ex for the millionth time, no big deal. Oh, and apparently, my cooch is like a fucking five-star resort for chlamydia, because I keep catching that shit on the reg.'"

Nina snorted, nearly choking on her laughter. "Damn, Jane, I don't even think the Devil himself could handle you!"

"Hey, if he can't handle the truth, he shouldn't have taken the job," I groaned, rolling my eyes so hard I swear they almost did a full 360 like Regan from The Exorcist. Sucking in a deep breath, I grunted through gritted teeth, "Heave. Fucking. Ho. Just. Fucking. Close. Already. You. Bitch."

Finally, it clicked into place and I gasped for breath. "Besides, it's not like I'm the only one with some skeletons in the closet. I bet everyone's got some dirty laundry they're hiding."

The look on Nina's face was priceless, like she couldn't decide whether to laugh her ass off or reach through the phone and smack me upside the head. "Why are you like this, Jane?"

"Because life's too short to be a boring-ass bitch, that's why. When I die, I want my tombstone to read 'Here lies Jane, who died as she lived: with a drink in one hand and a vibrator in the other.'"

Nina nearly fell off her bed, she was laughing so hard. "Jeez, Jane, your mom would have a heart attack if she heard you talking like that!"

"Then I'll make sure to get cremated. That way she can just scatter my ashes and be done with it," I declared, striking a pose that was somewhere between a drunk ballerina and a constipated flamingo, one arm flailing towards the ceiling while the other clutched at my hip like I was trying to keep my ass from falling off.

Just as I finished my sentence, the button on my jeans decided to stage a rebellion, popping open with a vengeance. I glared down at my crotch, my triumphant grin morphing into a scowl.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," I grumbled, fumbling with the stubborn button. "Stay closed, you dumb bitch. I don't have time for your shit today."

Nina just shook her head, still giggling. "You're absolutely ridiculous, you know that?"

With one final grunt of exertion, I managed to wrangle the button back into submission, letting out a triumphant "Ha!" as I did a little victory shimmy.

"Damn straight, and that's why you love me," I quipped, blowing her a kiss through the screen.

Nina pretended to catch the kiss, pressing her hand to her heart. "God help me, but I do. Even if you're going to be the death of me one of these days."

"Nah, I'm pretty sure that honor belongs to Calvin and his magic dick," I teased, waggling my eyebrows suggestively.

"Okay, okay, enough!" Nina laughed, holding up her hands in surrender. "I really do need to finish getting ready, though. Calv's picking me up in 20, so I'll meet you at your place?"

"You got it, babe. And don't forget the tequila! It's not a lake party until someone's skinny dipping with a margarita in hand."

"Why do I get the feeling that someone is going to be you?" Nina asked, raising an eyebrow.

I just grinned, giving her my best innocent look. "Who, me? I'm a fucking angel, I'll have you know."

"An angel who's going to get us both arrested for public indecency," Nina muttered, but I could see the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Hey, if you're gonna go out, might as well go out with a bang and your tits out, right?" I winked, blowing her one last kiss before ending the call.

Little did I know, my joke of a headstone would become a reality sooner than either of us could have imagined. But hey, at least I'd be remembered for something, right? Even if it was just being the girl who couldn't keep her legs closed or figure out how to use a fucking condom.

Rest in peace, Jane. You crazy, wild, beautiful bitch.

I jammed my phone into my bag and started tearing my room apart, looking for my keys like a crackhead trying to find their last hit.

And of course, that's when Captain Douchebag himself decided to make his grand entrance, rolling up with Nina in his clown car and blasting that god-awful Christian rap shit loud enough to wake the goddamn dead.

I practically fell down the stairs in my rush to get out of there, throwing on my leather jacket like it was a suit of armor against the fuckery that awaited me.

As I approached the car, Nina's head popped out like a whack-a-mole, and Calvin just couldn't resist opening his dumb fucking mouth.

"Damn, look at Zombie Barbie over here! Death definitely looks good on you, Lil J. Almost makes me wish I'd spent more time staring at your tits than your girl Nina's," he leered, his eyes raking over me like I was a piece of meat.

Nina just sat there with this awkward-ass smile plastered on her face, like she didn't know whether to laugh or throw herself out of the moving vehicle.

I swear to god, if eye-rolling burned calories, I would've been fucking anorexic by now. But instead of wasting my breath on King Fuckwit, I just flipped him the bird and climbed into the backseat, ready to get this shitshow on the road.

"You do look hot though," Nina said, poking her head around and handing me a bottle of tequila like it was the holy fucking grail.

I mean, sure, I looked the same as always - average at best, but Nina was a real one for trying to gas me up. Not that she had room to talk, squeezing into that too-tight red dress just to get a nod of approval from the walking, talking douchebag she called a boyfriend.

And don't even get me started on Calvin's whack-ass white boy dreads. Dude was trying so hard to be like some early 2000s rapper, I half-expected him to start busting out some Ja Rule lyrics.

"Thanks, babes," I said to Nina, sticking my head through the gap between the front seats like a fucking ostrich. It took every ounce of willpower not to give Calvin the death glare as I leaned forward to plant a quick kiss on Nina's cheek before settling back into my seat.

But whatever, we were on our way to this fucking party because apparently, Penelope just couldn't wait to see me. Which was rich, considering she 'accidentally' forgot to invite me and only extended an olive branch to Nina.

Our once inseparable trio had turned into a pathetic duo, and I knew Nina felt like the kid stuck in the middle of a nasty divorce. She'd tried to get me and Penelope to kiss and make up, but that ship had sailed off the edge of the fucking earth. I'd never forgive that bitch. Never.

Not for stealing my STDs - I mean, come on, Oakdale was a small-ass town, you were bound to bump uglies with someone else's sloppy seconds. Nah, that wasn't why I hated her guts. That bitch had fucked up my entire life in ways I couldn't even begin to describe.

Penelope and I were like my own goddamn parents, split up and fighting over who got custody of Nina on the weekends. But let's be real, I was obviously her favorite. I mean, who wouldn't choose the fun, crazy mom who lets you stay up late and eat ice cream for dinner over the stick-in-the-mud who's always nagging you to clean your room and do your fucking homework?

Penelope could have her prissy little tea parties and her fancy-ass country club membership. Nina and I? We were ride-or-die, partners in crime 'til the end. Or at least, that's what I thought.

But hey, that's life, right? One minute you're on top of the world, thinking you're invincible and untouchable. And the next? You're face-down in a ditch, wondering where it all went wrong and how you ended up so royally fucked.

Turns out, even the strongest bonds can snap like a cheap-ass bungee cord when you're not looking. And when they do, you're left free-falling into the abyss with nothing but your own fucking stupidity to break your fall.

Story of my fucking life.

Penelope was gonna have a fucking brain aneurysm when she saw me crashing her little princess party at the lake. The bitch probably thought she was safe, hiding behind her daddy's money and her gaggle of sycophantic ass-kissers.

But oh, was she in for a rude awakening. Just because her dad was the mayor didn't give her a fucking monopoly on every body of water in Oakdale.

This night was gonna be a goddamn shitshow of epic proportions. We're talking cheap booze, bad decisions, and enough drama to make a soap opera look like a fucking snoozefest.

But hey, that's just par for the course in Oakdale, the festering cesspool of Massachusetts where everyone's all up in each other's business like a bunch of gossipy old hags.

You know, like how everyone and their mother seemed to know about my janky-ass Converse sneakers, covered in scribbles from the last day of high school. Each signature was a reminder of some fuckwit who'd done me dirty, a permanent record of my pathetic existence.

I'd spent more nights than I cared to admit fantasizing about stumbling into a Jersey-sized heap of dog shit, just to drown those sad scrawls and pretend I had a blank slate. But the universe doesn't do subtle - it decides to deliver a whole celestial piping bag of humiliation icing directly to my fucking face instead.

And then, right on cue, the dingy elevator chimed and shuddered open like an arthritic jaw crammed with smokers' teeth. An ominous clanging that could only herald the arrival of fresh hell - you know, the usual fanfare for an evening in this blighted burg.

Oh joyous fucking rapture, let the shitshow commence!

This rager wouldn't be ending with some kumbaya circle-jerk, that was for goddamn sure. Nah, this party was gonna be a full-on, no-holds-barred battle royale - a spectacle of me gleefully scorching every bridge with any two-faced, back-stabbing bitch who'd ever crossed me.

And you know what? Fucking bring it on, baby! I was already lining my napalm trailer up to the on-ramp. Penelope could strut around like a pedigree show-pony all she wanted, flashing that condescending horse-grin behind Daddy's title.

But tonight, the bad bitch was putting that princess on notice.

I was crashing that party harder than the god-damned Titanic hit that iceberg, and every last simpering sycophant could cry me a fucking river for all I cared.

[ Flashback End. ]

As I stalk down this ominous hallway, doors start popping up on both sides like the set dressers went buck wild at a fucking hardware store clearance sale. Each one has a name engraved on a brass plate - Lilith Smith, Samantha Jones, Michael Dick-owitz. Yeah, real creative bunch.

I arch an eyebrow at the random assortment of Plain Jane monikers. What is this, dressing rooms for the Most Boring People Pageant? Or holding cells until their numbers get called for a rousing game of Name That Torture?

One dingy-ass door catches my snarky eye, the nameplate so grimy and scratched I can barely make out the scribble. Curiosity and dread do their usual wrestle in my gut as I reach out with a trembling hand, grabbing the rusty handle like it might just bite me.

It turns with a creak that sounds straight out of a Saw movie, grinding out a raspy "Turn back now!" kinda vibe. But since when did I ever listen to basic survival instincts? I crack that baby open just enough to peek through the sliver with one eye, holding my breath like I was 12 again and sneaking a look at Shannon Wilkins changing for gym class.

At first, it seems like your basic-bitch supply closet - metal shelves crammed with mops, buckets, and enough cleaning supplies to make a hazmat crew soil themselves. But then a flicker of movement at the back end has my pulse kicking into arrhythmia territory. Some tattered rag or lingerie slip caught in a draft from the world's most inconsiderate ghost.

My heart jackhammers, but I straighten my spine and slam that door shut hard enough to rattle the whole rickety hallway. Nuh-uh, no fucking way am I signing up for the Greenpeace remake of Ghostbusters with Slimer and the Stay Puft Mashmallow Man making ectoplasmic cameos.

Squaring my shoulders, I power-walk forward with a scowl that could curdle milk, the sickly fluorescents flickering in gloomy tune with my stomping steps. Bring it on, you dismal torture-funhouse rejects - if it means avoiding another round of spooky peekaboo with the lingering dead, I can handle Michael Myers and his entire damn family reunion at this point.

At the rate this is going, I have a feeling all these ominous hallways are one interminable gauntlet designed to push me into a screaming straight jacket. But tough shit, spooky realm - I've been through enough trauma and living nightmares to turn my sanity into forged steel.

Whatever fresh hell this place wants to throw at me, I can fucking handle it.

Probably...