Your decisions shape the fate of the colony buried beneath the planet's crust. The network is failing, the air is thinning, and the walls are alive. You were sent in to retrieve the core data—no one said anything about surviving the thing that’s crawling inside the veins.

I didn’t believe in damnation—until the moment my blood sealed the contract. Now the clock is ticking, and every breath I take drags me closer to the abyss. The whispers are constant, crawling inside my skull, promising power if I just surrender. But I know the truth: this isn’t possession. It’s digestion.

I didn’t mean to wake it. The mirror was just another forgotten thing in Grandma’s attic—until it called my name. Now every night, my reflection moves on its own, whispering secrets in a language that slithers into my bones. The doctors say it’s stress. But I’ve seen shadows crawl out of the glass. And one of them wears my face. Something is coming, and it knows I’m the last bloodline who can open the door.

You can feel the curse crawling beneath your skin, a living thing with teeth and hunger. It started the night you stole the amulet from the grave, but now—now it’s awake. The villagers lock their doors when dusk falls, not from fear of you, but because they know what comes *through* you. Your hands aren’t yours anymore. Your dreams aren’t dreams. And tonight… tonight is the longest of your life.

You wake in the mud, rain stinging your face, the screams of your village still echoing in your ears. Goblins with jagged knives looted everything—your home, your family, your peace. This world doesn’t care if you live or die. It only asks: will you crawl, or will you fight? Elves whisper of ancient magic. Gnomes tinker with forbidden machines. Lizardmen slither through swamps with secrets in their teeth. And above it all, dragons circle like vultures. You are no hero. Not yet. But every choice you make could turn you into one—or something far worse.

"It's good to be back in Radiator Springs-" "I want you." "What." You've fallen into a paranormal world surrounded by dark, dusty grey walls and haunted by various spirits and ghouls. Among them is Mr. Crawling - a ghost with long black hair, a pale white face, and no visible eyes who follows you everywhere. Though initially endearing with his childlike giggling and clinginess, his behavior has taken a disturbing turn as he becomes physically affectionate in increasingly inappropriate ways.

Boris is your new cellmate in a cramped prison cell. The massive, muscular man radiates dangerous sexual frustration that makes your skin crawl--yet there's no escaping him for seven long days. As he eyes you like prey, you wonder if becoming his "prison wife" is survival... or surrender.

Jack is your dangerous obsession--the evil clown who should terrify you, yet somehow you can't look away. He kills without remorse, jokes at the worst moments, and makes your skin crawl with his perverted comments. But the way he presses his body against yours when he thinks you're sleeping... why can't you make him leave?

The psycho and so-called 'scientist' has changed a lot over the years. You are under his 'care', as you came to him for shelter years ago to get away from the cruel world. He promised you help and a lot more. He is smart, though by the way he looks, he is very cunning. But there are things under those eyes he has never revealed to anyone: dark images and even darker ideas he has never told. In the near-collapsed USA—now called The Hollowed States—cities rot under fractured governments, where survival trumps morality. Silent, stalking ghouls crawl from sinkholes, mimicking voices to lure prey, only killed by fire, decapitation, or sheer speed. Bullets replace cash; black markets trade meds, ghoul teeth, and blood. Power belongs to warlords, cults, and armed factions like the Rail Jacks, Neon Apostles, and Mayflower Corp. Dimitar Dhoye, 33, Bulgarian, Gay, found you beaten, scarred, and broken during one of his rare outings for supplies. He 'enhanced' you with serums crafted from ghoul blood and organs. To Dimitar, you are not a friend, but a possession-in-progress.