Race always assumed isolation would feel like being alone, trapped in a room with only the crisp world to look at. But isolation wasn't truly alone, it was being with oneself without the distractions of the world. An environment where his truest thoughts emerged and hurt him.

Isolation wasn't as... mentally straining as he thought it would be, however it was truly boring in the harshest definition of the word. No matter how many times he can rewatch Forest Gump in his head, he's stuck in this room with virtually nothing to do.

42, 43, 44, 45. One by one he recounts the indents in the sofa, there should be 137 however he missed the ones on the back and were recounting to get the full spectrum.

46, 47, 48, 49. He missed Jack, he's sure that if Jack were here Race would forget he was even scared at all, Jack always made him feel brave, is Jack could do it, so could Race.

50, 51, 52, 53. He missed Crutchie with his heartfelt words of comfort that could calm any racing heart, especially his.

54, 55, 56, 57. He missed the sunshine, it's been two days and the insides of his arms are starting to itch. He's also loosing a bit of his warm glow, as the creaking bulb does very little for Race's skin. It almost reminds Race of the single lightbulb in his old room. It used to creek the same uncomfortable way. Expect his could never stay on for very long.

58, 59, 60, 61. He's tried practicing his dancing, but the floor was hard and musty and he almost felt too tired to dance. Still he committed to a bit of activity since he had no idea how long he'd be in here. He missed his studio and all the shenanigans him and the other majors would get into. He thinks today was reverse day, when the guys and girls switched roles to get used to all styles of dance, but Race thought it was also to switch things up for fun.

61, 62, 63, 64. Race wished that he'd stayed near Jack that day, though he wondered if it'd do any good since the guy was in his house completely undetected.

65, 66, 67, 68. Race wondered if Jack and Davey were going to find him and save him.

69, 70, 71, 72. Race wondered if he was going to die on this sofa.

73, 74, 76, 77. Race wondered if he was going to die.

Footsteps vibrated across the floor, heavy and sharp they sounded like a giant. Race scrambled into a defensive position, his fists flying up despite the clunky bracelets on his wrist. He knew it was useless, but it was better than just sitting there.

Click. The first lock was twisted.

Scrape. The second lock was pulled.

Screech. The third lock was pushed.

Creek. The old rusted door rattled on his hinges as it was pushed open, the same man coming into view, dressed in fancy slacks and a buttoned down shirt, his hair greased down elegantly.

"Hello Antonio," he dared smile, like a predator who'd backed up his prey into a corner where there was nothing left for them to do but have a heart attack and die, leaving its delicious meat ripe for the picking.

Race didn't respond, just held his fists up a little higher, he wasn't going down without a fight.

The man sighed, "very well, I believe I haven't introduced myself. I am Winn, it's a pleasure to formally meet you."

Race didn't move either. Frozen with the hardest poker face he could muster since he first started gambling like the little ball of energy he was.

Winn frowned disappointed, thought Race wasn't sure what he was disappointing.

He held out his hand, "come with me, I want to show you something."

Race did move this time, stepping back and away slightly, a silent form of defiance.

Winn's thumb slammed down and Race sharply cried out in pain as electricity coursed through his body, uncurling his hands and numbing his knees, causing him to sharply fall down on his fours like a dog.

Race curled his toes in, an old habit from when he was little, and stood up, feeling just as little. Winn's hand never moved. Race got the message. He slowly moved forward and grabbed it, feeling his cold doctor-like hands.

"Shall we?" Winn asked, rather politely. Race rubbed his free hand to his eyes to stop tears from falling down, he nodded slightly, and they were off.

Outside of the door was surprisingly not a house, but rather an underground bunker, filled with glass exhibits, lined up and down with your typical biome ecosystem. The peculiar thing was the stuffed animals filling up the sceneries, with just about any landmark animal you could think of. The safari with snakes, lions, tigers, and beautiful hawks flying about. Even a city landscape with pigeons and squirrels set up with almost a lifelike accuracy. Endangered animals were also a consistency, including a Javan Rhino which really curled Race's blood.

It was almost sad to look at though, so many animals died to gather dust in someone's basement. A waste of life almost, something way more precious and skin and feathers.

Down the hall was another set of doors, which Winn began to pick up speed as he almost pulled Race towards it, a more genuine smile coming onto his face.

The doors were pushed open, and there were twice as many exhibits but incomplete, a construction work in progress.

The difference is, instead of animals there were humans. Some dressed, some horribly in the nude. But nonetheless completely real humans. Staring at Race with the characteristics of life, missing the most important factor which was actual life.

Race's stomach dipped low, his heart palpitating horribly as nausea filled his throat. He wanted to throw up, he felt like throwing it, his throat was burning like he was gonna throw up.

He dared a look over at Winn who looked disgustingly proud, and scarily excited.

Why would he be excited?

Oh.

Race covered his mouth with shaking, hands, the blood draining right out of them. He understood why he was here, and now he wished he hadn't.

Winn completely oblivious to Race's complete mental breakdown, pulled his stuff arm to a specific exhibit which almost looked complete.

People clothed in beautiful silk outfits were set up in complex and engaging poses, holding wine, and laughing amongst themselves. Some offering gifts and trinkets to an empty chair in the middle, missing an occupant.

Race stared in horror at the chair. The empty chair in the otherwise full exhibit Winn brought him to see.

"No." Race whispered to himself, real tears dripping down his face.

"Yes," Winn smiled proud, "there you will be. The centerpiece of my best exhibit, shining in all of your glory."

Rac didn't throw up often, but looking at this horrid chair brought nausea like he's never felt before. He keeled over and heaved, a sharp gasp for breath as stomach acid tunneled out of his mouth, burning his throat and tongue. The smell hitting his nose with a stench making him want to throw up again until his stomach was empty.

Which it would be soon.

Race gasped for air, clutching his skin, feeling for the bones and organs still inside of him, his hands wet from wiping away his tears. This sick man was going to stuff him like a turkey. There he would be, dead but stuffed as if he wasn't, marveled by a single man in his musty basement gathering dust forever. His skin to be ripped off from the rest of his body like a cheap suit.

Don't throw up again. Don't throw up again.

"So, what do you think?" Winn asked, joy and excitement practically spilling out of his voice.

Race turned to him slowly, the completely sick, oblivious man. The stupid one from the diner, the one who was going to stuff like like a deer mount on his wall.

"You're a sick man!" Race shouted, backing up, "I hope you rot in hell!"

Winn's giant smile fell instantly, a sneer on his face, "you selfish people never understand, nobody appreciates my art otherwise I wouldn't be forced to do it in a damn bunker."

"Let me go!" Race cried, falling down on his knees, the edge of his feet hitting his own puke. "Please, I don't want to die."

"Don't you get it? You're too beautiful to live. Your skin has hardly seen the horrors of age, your hair is still fresh and new, and your body hasn't started filling up with fat. You're young and beautiful and it would be a tragedy to let you live and let age ruin that." He gushed, stepping closer to Race, "you should be thanking me."

Race shook his head crying harder, tasting his own slimy sickly sweet snot. "I wanna... I wanna grow... grow... g... grow old. See Jack and Crutchie."

Winn's face hardened, he hauled Race up by the arm rather aggressively, pulling him quickly back towards the locked room, practically throwing him in.

"You don't get to grow old." He said, giving Race a cold glare and slammed the door shut.

Race crawled within himself, almost squeezing every bone and organ he could find, squeezing them for the constant reassurance they're still here, you're not a stuffed animal yet.

His breath felt hot, and heavy, like he was made of stuffing, heating up his insides.

He could see himself, paler than normal, set up with the same glassy stare and slightly too wide, too perfect smile. He's sure Winn will make a mistake, a too crooked toe, or perfecting one of his natural imperfections, like straightening out his uneven smile, or raising his eyelids. Just close enough to be him but missing his personality, lost to the confines of fake life. A fake him.

Race squeezed his eyes shut, the image of him, perfectly lifeless, sitting there dead on that throne scared him more than anything he's ever felt. He tugged at his hair, his face scratching the grey floor.

His feet were soaked in his own bile, gross and mushy between his toes but there was nothing to wipe them off with so they just continued to fill up his nose with that awful stench.

It's funny. He'd forgotten what his brothers noses look like. The imagine of them so distorted in his mind from his own brain filling in the lost pieces, they had the same sickly perfect look as the stuffed people collecting dust in someone's basement.