You thought crawling out of the coffin in Buried Alive was the end of it. It wasn’t. When you come round, you’re no longer underground: you’re strapped into a cold metal seat inside a padded room, and the only light is the faint glow under the door.
The cell smells of bleach. An electrical hum fills the silence, and behind you a chain shifts. You aren’t alone in here.
A speaker on the wall clicks on. The voice is warm, delighted and completely wrong. It calls you its favourite patients, promises that therapy will be fun, and makes clear that nobody walks out of this ward until they’re cured.
Patient notes, locked boxes, a button marked Therapy Transmission: everything in the cell was put there by him, and every piece is part of the treatment. Survive his methods and they might also be your way out.
He’s stepped away, but not for long. When he comes back, it’s time for your final procedure. You have sixty minutes to make sure the cell is empty.
Nobody leaves until they’re better.