Their judgement, their puzzles were simply a way of toying with you. You can barely convince yourself to care about this puzzle. You can't even decide if you actually want out or not. It's a halfway blissfull experience to you, the loose yet warm tides and sharp blades of other's interpretations of your actions be damned. Why do you choose to be here? Do you really want this hell?

You keep going up the stairs. It feels like the railings are rusted under your hands. You spit blood and dog's teeth on the carpet as you go. You still hold the gun in your hand, an extension of yourself and less a weapon. You are corrupted, rotting from the inside. The current grows ravenous.

You arrive at a door. You knock, hoping that whatever is on the other side is merciful and kills you quickly. Things cannot go on like this for much longer, can it?