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You walk to the end of the hallway, which turns east and continues on. Through the darkness, flood lights provide enough illumination to see thirty feet ahead. A musty screen of white billowy smoke hangs in the air, and you hear the low hum of steam vents and machinery working. The air is noticeably warmer, enough that the adrenaline in your veins and the rise in temperature have you covered in a film of sweat. Water stains spot the drop ceiling, and the tiles bulge every few feet through which the the scurrying of rodents can be heard.

Up ahead is a single wooden door with a glass pane, and the words "Michael Woods, Maintenance Supervisor" etched in black. Lights flicker behind it, and as you step closer, you see the silhouette of a man inside. There is no movement and no sound from within.