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You need to keep moving. You don't even know where you're going to go, you're just going to pick a random direction. You'll find another place to fuck around in, maybe you'll meet someone new, that'll be fun!
Haha! Yeah, yeah, it'll be super duper deluxe fun! All you have to do is to keep moving. No matter what. That's what a good son does-
No, no, don't dwell on the dream. Push it to the back of your mind, like you always do. You are Vincent Cruz: Yet Another Unwilling Employee of ARC. Good, good, you're already forgetting it.
Your slightly improved senses pick up on something odd. There's something off with the fluorescent lighting in the hallway you're walking through. The light is far dimmer than it's supposed to be. The air lacks that all too familiar electric hum, leaving the hallway in complete and utter silence.
Only the faintest sound of water rushing through pipes can be heard.
It shouldn't be like this. At least, it wasn't like this for the last six days, so you wonder what changed. Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you. Maybe you woke up WAY too early? You try your best to ignore it, even though it's rubbing you the wrong way.
Your footsteps echo throughout the empty hallway. You doubt Ashton is awake this early so you hope you can avoid being caught by one of the many, many other guards that patrol here. You don't want someone with a power trip to yell at you for some imaginary curfew or whatever.
<span class="mu-r">thump thump.</span>
Your head feels funny. You grit your teeth, trying to ignore any bad thoughts simmering inside of your brainmeat.
You pull the LAYER 2 map out of your satchel, idly scanning it to see if there's anything interesting nearby. It takes a moment to reorient yourself but if the map's correct, you're close to...
A <span class="mu-b">gambling den?</span> The map reads "GAMBLING DEN: SEMI-OFFICIAL", which doesn't offer much clarification. What does semi-official even mean? What you DO know is that it's only a few left turns away so, hey, you might as well visit it.
With the help of your map, you soon find yourself in a hallway that clearly hasn't been maintained in a while. A thin layer of grime that faintly reeks of cigarettes cakes the walls and ceiling. The fluorescent lighting is tinted a dull brown thanks to the grime caking it as well.
You instinctually know that this isn't any normal grime. Your <span class="mu-b">GUNK KNOWLEDGE</span> tells you that this has to be traces of your product - Someone's been smoking your stuff out here. Huh. You didn't really question where the cigarette mold was being shipped to but this must've been one of those places.
There's a heavy set iron door, reminiscent of a ship bulkhead door, that's conspicuously missing the faint brown grime that's caked everything else in here. You guess this is where the gambling den is. You walk up to the door to open it annnnndddd that's going to be an issue.
There's no keycard scanner. There's only an old, slightly rusty valve on the door.
