You awaken to a dull throb behind your eyes, a persistent ache that pulses with every beat of your heart. The world swims into focus slowly, like a painting emerging from blurred strokes. You're not in your bed. You're not even in a place you recognize.

A hushed silence presses in, so profound it's almost a physical weight. The air is cool, carrying a faint, peculiar scent, something like aged leather, expensive cologne, and a barely perceptible metallic tang that prickles the back of your throat.

You're lying on a surprisingly comfortable, almost antique-feeling chaise lounge. Heavy, velvet drapes the color of dried blood cover what you presume are windows, completely obscuring any view of the outside world. The room itself is grand, perhaps even opulent, but in a way that feels utterly alien. Dark, polished wood gleams under the soft, indirect light from a hidden source, and ornate, unfamiliar artworks adorn the walls.

No sounds. Just the distant hum of something mechanical, too faint to identify, and the echo of your own rapid heartbeat in your ears. Your memory is a fragmented mess, a frustrating void where the last few hours should be. One moment, a mundane activity—you were walking home—the next, this disorienting blankness.