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There is a faint whirring sound, as what appears to be a polygraph machine is activated. Its dual needles rattle across a ream of paper, which has started to spill off a table, and onto the cold cement ground below.

Let's start at the beginning. Tell me, where are you now?

A delicate, pale hand twitches. Connected to it is a series of electrodes, beginning at the palm, and extending upwards.

I am in a house.

A masculine hand taps a pen to a clipboard, which in turn holds down a series of important looking notes.

How many doors are there in this house?

We see a small window within what we know now to be a concrete cell. There are iron bars on this window, and pure light pours in from the outside. A piece of cloth seems to obscure our total view of the window.

The number of doors is 14. There is no furniture in this house.

The man asking the questions is Dr. Dirac. His expression is one of excitement and curiosity. Perhaps, on a deeper level, even malice.

No Furniture? That is very strange for a house.

A hooded figure is seated in a wooden chair. The hood, which is draped about a delicate frame, is white, and clean. The figure is bound to the chair, along with a series of attached electrodes which connected to the previous polygraph machine. Dirac sits before the figure, learning forward as if to better hear the crystallizing words before they crash the ground.

A face can just barely be discerned from behind the hood. Petite. Cold. Melted by light. As she speaks, a spot of blood where her mouth would be begins to grow.

There is no other house like it in all the world. There are those who say there is another like it in Egypt, but they are liars.

Do you live there?

I await my redeemer.

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