You stand motionless, muscles tensed, heart pounding, waiting for the creature’s first move. Its grotesque form looms before you, your eyes locked on its impossible to read face, it stares back at you with its beady eyes unwavering.
It shifts slightly, its long, hairless claws twitching at its sides. Then, without warning, it flicks its head towards the far corner of the basement, raising one claw in a slow, deliberate motion. It’s pointing—but not quite. The gesture is clumsy, almost like a crude imitation of human behavior. The room is filled with the sound of skittering rats, their constant motion and the scratching of tiny claws against stone adding to the tension.
You hesitate, unsure whether this is a trap or some bizarre form of communication. The creature’s head tilts, its gesture becoming more insistent, but still utterly alien—a twisted parody of a man trying to convey a message through a body not his own.
With cautious steps, you follow the direction it indicates, each footfall carefully placed to avoid the rats that swarm at your feet. You keep one eye on the ratman, your senses on high alert for any sudden movement. As you approach the dimly lit corner, the ratman's eyes follow you like dark, unblinking orbs.
In the flickering light, you see what it was pointing to: a rickety shelf cluttered with old bottles, scraps of paper, and dusty relics. Your fingers brush over a series of oddities: cheap wine, a broken lantern, a rat’s nest woven into the corner, and then something catches your eye—a dusty jewelry box. You pick it up revealing an inscription carved in, it reads—For my beloved, always and forever.
You frown, turning back to the ratman. It’s watching you closely, eyes flickering from the jewelry box to your face. You put the box down, unease growing, and continue to inspect the basement.
Among the debris, you find tattered clothes and a pair of work boots, too large to belong to the girl, worn and well-used. Nearby, a stack of tattered books lies scattered, most dealing with alchemy and transformation. The pages are filled with cramped, frantic notes, recipes scrawled in a hasty hand, and sketches of potions that hint at desperate attempts to reverse a terrible mistake. One page stands out: a diagram of a man slowly morphing into a creature of fur and claws, surrounded by notations like “unstable,” “dosage unknown,” and “failed.”
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You glance back at the ratman, and though its face remains unreadable, the way it clutches at its own chest seems almost… ashamed. You’re starting to piece together the tragic sequence of events: a husband transformed, a wife desperate to save him, and a monstrous mistake that’s spiraled out of control.
The ratman makes a low, mournful sound—somewhere between a growl and a whimper—and your eyes land on a dusty bottle among the scattered items: the Potion of Ratification. Its label is faded, the glass half-empty. You don’t need to ask; the Rat Man’s pitiful, resigned gaze confirms it.
The faint creak of the trapdoor above cuts through your thoughts, followed by the soft pad of footsteps. You turn, watching as the door swings open. The girl stands there, clutching a set of keys and a thin leather-bound book, her eyes widening in horror at the scene below.
“You weren’t supposed to know,” she says, her voice trembling with a mixture of sorrow and anger. “I couldn’t let him starve… not after everything. I’ve tried to find a cure, but I’m running out of time. Every time he gets hungry, I have to… I have to…” Her voice breaks, and you see the weight of her actions bearing down on her.
The ratman lets out a low chitter, stepping back, unwilling to meet her gaze. She inches down the steps, torn between her love for what remains of her husband and the guilt of her ongoing sacrifices. She’s close now, distracted by her despair, and you know this is your chance.
You shift slightly, and the ratman glances at you, eyes briefly flickering with understanding. It shuffles away, giving you just enough space. You leap forward, grabbing her wrist and twisting the keys from her grasp. She gasps in shock, but you don’t let her recover, dashing up the steps as she stumbles back, caught between her fear and the instinct to protect her husband.
The ratman doesn’t attack, just watches, mournful and silent, as you reach the top and slam the trapdoor shut, locking it with shaking hands. The girl’s voice rises in frantic pleas, muffled by the wood, as she bangs against the barrier. You catch your breath, holding the keys tight, knowing you’ve escaped—physically, at least.
You glance at the potion in your hand and the crumpled alchemical notes.
What is your choice?