You find yourself in a high-ceilinged, dimly lit room. Multiple sets of stairs spider up to other floors, and the smell of something stale and oily hangs in the air, like old cigarette smoke in a bar after close. Once upon a time, this was a factory. Now, the room serves as a clandestine hideout, sparsely furnished with tattered, dingy couches and warped tables propping up a cluster of computers. The monitors here have all gone dead.

You see a number of burly-looking men scattered along the floor of this room, bodies and expressions distorted in poses of undeniable agony. They all died screaming, clutching their chests, collapsing into haphazard piles.

And in the midst of this scene of carnage, you see one man standing, taking in the spectacle before him. He’s relatively lithe of build, clad entirely in black leather, blond hair singed, blood trickling down the left side of his face. Someday, the wound will heal into a grotesque burn scar instead of the bloody blisters there on his face. You look at this man - he’s barely more than a boy, but he carries a heavy weight with him that perhaps makes him seem older - and you might even think he probably used to be quite attractive, before whatever ensued here left its indelible mark on him.

You see this figure - he’s silent, still. The faint ins and outs of his breathing are the only indication that he’s any different from the corpses sprawled out on the floor in front of him. You approach - slowly, hesitant, because there’s a certain air of something fearsome about this entire tableau - and the man turns to look at you.

“‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,’” he says.