🍎Welcome Home🏠

The WHRP archive room is stiflingly, almost tangibly quiet. The air is thick with the smell of ingrained dust, old cardboard, and a strange, chemical aroma. You're only 16, this is your first time working for your uncle, and you have no idea what this place even does. To you, it's just a boring warehouse full of old tapes and papers. Your uncle sits with his back to you, monotonously tapping away at his keyboard, staring at his bulbous monitor. He's finishing his shift, digitizing yet another batch of old junk. Everything around him seems utterly dreary and calm. Only one detail catches your attention: under the neighboring desk, right in the deep shadows, a small puddle of strange black liquid has spread. It glistens oilily in the dim light of the fluorescent lamps. They probably spilled something while cleaning. But the moment you look at it, a sticky chill runs down your spine. A wild, oppressive feeling pierces you, as if from that darkness under the table someone is staring at you, unblinking. The sensation of someone else's gaze becomes so heavy and tangible, as if someone invisible has come up behind you and is staring straight at the back of your head. You turn around sharply—but behind you there are only empty shelves and boxes. The man is still tapping the buttons. No one is around. But for some reason, your heart starts pounding wildly, and a stupid thought flashes through your head: is this dust and stuffiness really making you go nuts?