Your eyes flick across the room scanning for anything you can use as a weapon. Amidst the piles of dusty wooden crates, long untouched barrels, half-filled bottles and swarming rats, a glint catches your eye–a garden trowel.

With no hesitation you launch yourself towards it, bursting forth at speed. The rats scurry to get out from under your steps, in a chorus of squeaks and frantic scratching, but some aren’t quick enough and you feel a sickening crunch as they’re flattened against the stone floor.

The ratman squeals, a piercing shriek, its cry echoes in the enclosed space. It’s a horrible tortured scream that shakes your constitution.

You reach the trowel and grab it, turning to face the abomination. You brandish your new found weapon, glad to see a sharpish point at one end, and hold it out, a bulwark between you and the abomination.

With a shout, you lunge at the ratman, aiming your trowel at its ratty little heart, pinning your hopes and dreams to this one shot at vanquishing your foe. The ratman snarls in return, leaping towards you, with a ferocious speed.

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Your thrust hits its mark, but the force of the impact sends you both crashing to the ground. Pain explodes throughout your body as you struggle against the ratman’s weight, its fetid breath stinking of cheese and rotten meat hot against your skin. Its teeth sink into your neck, tearing through flesh and muscle. Your blood is hot against your neck and you smell the tang of iron.

You’ve felt this feeling before. Death.

Just as helpless as the first time.

As the ratman’s claws tear into your chest, as its teeth rip out your throat, your vision begins to fade. The sound of the cellar, the squeals of a thousand rats beginning their feast, becomes distant.

As your mind returns to nothingness, you come to the realization, this time there will be no second chances. The wheel will not spin again.

This time it’s truly over.