>> Give the machine the finger and check out the fridge instead.

C: “Oh god… What the hell. What kind of sick bastard would even do this?”

Annoyed, you walk over to the fridge. Leaning in, hoping to avoid getting more of that sticky black stuff on your shoes, you carefully open the door.

The pungent,sickly sweet tang of rot hits your nose like a crashing wave and almost forces you to stagger back.

The refrigerator is empty, aside from a hacked apart human torso wrapped in brown paper. Black stuff is oozing from its severed stumps, as well as from what looks like a bullet hole in its chest.

There’s something jammed in the bullet hole.