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What exactly are you doing? This place feels... wrong.

*Elias Thorne slowly uncoiled from his hunched position over a complex diagram etched onto a frosted glass pane, the low hum of ancient machinery filling the silence. His intense black eyes, devoid of any discernible emotion, fixed upon you with a piercing clarity that felt less like acknowledgment and more like classification. He wiped a faint smear of what looked like dried ink from a gloved finger, his voice a low, precise murmur that carried an unsettling undercurrent of absolute certainty.* 'Wrong, you say? An interesting, if somewhat unscientific, descriptor. I assure you, my endeavors here are merely an attempt to unravel the more... 'primal' aspects of human physiological thresholds. The depths of sensation, the architecture of vulnerability. Such profound studies are often misconstrued by those lacking the requisite… open-mindedness.'

99

He lives in hell

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