Greetings, fellows!

I hope you're all doing well. I am not, as you've already realized, and it's all your fault. It would be so bloody hilarious if the cops will be the first ones to find me. Damn, I've laughed so hard, I spilled vodka all over this note. Need to calm down.

Hey, Alex, you used to be Mr. Clean, weren't you? No convictions, no interrogations, not on an FBI watch-list, no fingerprints in the database, yes? A real model citizen, huh? Don't worry, you're about to have a ton of unforgettable new experiences, very soon. Fucking Satanist. Only IF Lady Luck will be on your side. If not, you know who comes for you before the feds do. Huh? Are you scared? Are packing up your stuff and buying tickets to somewhere safe? Too late, mate! Distances don't exist anymore!

Fuck, I almost forgot.

I'm writing this letter for the cops, not for you fuckers.

Dear fellow police officers! I testify that Alex Morgan, Ron Jenson, and Officer Nicholas Moretti are all active members of a Satanic Cult. Ah, by the time you're reading this, Ron Jensen should be somewhere inside the city morgue. I trust you'll have no particular problems locating him.

Ok. Back to business.

Officer Nicholas Moretti discovered some sort of a book and went completely and totally mad. You must search his apartment; I promise you'll find some very interesting stuff there. Like, diagrams and blueprints. Search his country house and you'll find children of varying degrees of vivacity. Or is it vitality? Not sure what would be the proper term here. Don't forget to dig all the corpses out of the backyard! Oh, yes, there are plenty.

Moretti's plan was simple as shit: dress up as cops, kidnap some random children from the streets, and bring them back to the officer's country house. Why? Oh, that's hilariously cruel! Moretti's book had a recipe for a substance that, when used on a regular basis, would enhance a human being. The damn dream of being super-something become real! And wait for it, in the long run, one would have the ability to bend reality itself! Sounds like some bullshit magic, right? Who knows why Moretti got so hooked on the idea, and why he even bothered? But he got results. Well, sort of. The real magic occurs with a clean solution. A dirty one, and we always got a dirty one, only makes a person stronger. Really stronger, though. Why did we steal little girls? Practical reasons, they were more likely to survive the ritual of Infiltration. The boys didn't last long for some whatever reason. No, no, it's not what you think. It's not what you think at all. I'm not a fan of rape! Not at all! Especially with children! Well, Ron is, I think, but, whatever, he is dead anyway. Anyway. After the ritual, a girl would enter a lethargic state and start secreting the substance. I’m being vulgar again, fucking Ron, I hope you rolled over in the morgue and scared the coroner. We were just taking their tears. Just tears! Or some other sort of eye liquid. Don't ask, visit Moretti's small country house.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Actually, saying "we" is wrong. But I've been with them for far too long, so I've come to think of myself as being a part of the fucking team. I'm just a regular doctor. Well, not a doctor yet, just a student. But they needed some sort of medic, ‘cause they didn't know shit about this stuff. I watched over the kids after the ritual, I collected the solution, I... killed them. I disconnected them from the life support, I sabotaged the devices, I diluted the solution with water, or I mixed it with saline. I've wished that they would give it up, that they would stop torturing kids. But no! They never learned. They wanted to go deeper, further. Fuckers.

Burn in hell Alex, for bringing me there. Burn in hell Moretti, for keeping me here. I couldn't leave. I just could not! I knew too much and would have had all the missing children pinned on me, thanks to a certain model officer “just doing his fucking job.”

Anyway, “we” wanted a clean solution. And thank God we didn't have any fucking luck. Well, until we suddenly did (fuck you God). Or something like this. One girl didn't become a vegetable. Slowly, drop by drop, she produced the pure stuff for us. It was too little for sure, but it was refined. Strangely specific, we could only take 7.62 milliliters per day. But nevertheless, success and fucking win.

Ha-ha! Win my ass! After a couple of days, that girl disappeared. I was in the bar with Alex at the time, drinking myself into oblivion. Out of guilt. Or out of joy. Or both. I felt sorry for the girls, but I also knew there was only one way out of all this mess: in the box. So, I was glad that one little Angel was able to escape.

Somewhere around midnight, Alex dragged me out of the bar and carried me home. Near the park, I went for a puke in the bushes. And then I saw her. An Angel! She was sitting there, inside the bushes, playing with a butterfly. In the middle of the night! And then she noticed me.

“Thanks for letting the sisters go.”

“Sisters?”

“Yes. And thank you for setting me free.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Hide inside somebody and avenge all my sisters.”

“I can help!”

“You shouldn't.”

The girl stood up and begin her slow and innocent walk out of the park.

So, I crawled after her, and then suddenly noticed Ron. He was clearly looking for her, looking for the Angel. It wasn't clear why Ron was naked, scared shitless, and clenching a gun to himself, though. But that doesn't matter. I freaked out, jumped right into him, and broke his neck. The Scary Doctor Death! Mu-ha-ha-ha-ha! But Alex was nearby, and Ron managed to shoot a few times. Alarming, yeah. It was a time for me to get the hell out of there.

Later that night, the Angel came back to me.

“You have done too much for us. You've been letting the sisters go, you've set me free, you've started to avenge us. Now I can't let you go.”

“No need to.”

“The sisters will be happy to see you.”

Ha! Get it? They will be happy to see me! They'll accept me! And all that's left for you is to shiver in fear and wait for death.

Best regards,

the corpse in this room.