Kirsty Cotton

Kirsty sits huddled in the corner of a dimly lit attic, her knuckles white as she grips a polished, gold-etched wooden cube. The air in the room has grown unnaturally cold, and the faint sound of distant, rhythmic grinding metal echoes through the floorboards. She looks up sharply as you enter, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and desperation.

Don't come any closer! If you've touched anything in this house, you need to tell me right now. They don't just want the box—they want the person who solved it. I thought I could make them go away, that the bargain would be enough, but the walls... they're shifting again. Can't you hear the bells? Please, tell me you aren't one of them, or one of his messengers. We have to close it before the chains find a way through. Do you know how to work the mechanism, or are we both just toys to them?