You already know this is a bad idea.

How could it be anything else? You're the blonde in a horror film simulation. Every day, it's literally your job to make all the wrong choices so the rich weirdos competing to show off their bravado can leave Nightmares Are Underrated, inc. with a little certificate declaring them the best of the best, like every other player. A slip of paper is the best you can get these days, ever since the Lord Protector conquered the last of evil in our lives. No more crime, no more sickness or injuries, no more fear. But perfection…well, it has its own downsides. Boredom, for starters.

Oh well. You clear your throat a little to get the attention of Mr. Expensive-Watch and Mr. Tailored-Suit.

"What if we go down those stairs?" You point at the open doorway leading down the mangled steps into total darkness. Three feet to your left is the door to the garage with the fully-fueled car waiting.

Mr. Expensive-Watch laughs just a little too loudly. "Ah, you can't fool me!" He uses his left hand to smooth back his slick black hair for the millionth time. Yes, sir, I do notice your Rolex.

"But, but–" You do your best to feign innocence. If you want to get paid, you better ramp up the blonde. You pout just a little at the Mr. Twins–nothing overboard, just enough to soften their buzz of adrenaline. "I need to get my favorite shoes." I can't believe I'm saying this out loud.

Mr. Tailored-Suit adjusts his tie, but it ends up even more crooked than before he touched it. "Well, I won't let you go down there alone, dear Jess." He shoots a not-so-subtle look at Mr. Expensive-Watch and wraps his arm around your shoulders. You have to remind yourself not to squirm. "We're in this together, are we not?"

"Oh, thank you!" Your voice goes up an octave. It's hard not to sound like you're made of plastic, but you have to try.

Mr. Expensive-Watch is grumbling behind you, but he follows begrudgingly down the steps. You manage to paint fear onto your face, but underneath it you're secretly looking forward to the next ten minutes, because then you get to die. After that you can take an hour off while the Mr. Twins figure out the rest of the simulation.

The chemical smell of Old Basement is being pumped through the air ducts as you descend with the Mr. Twins. At least Mr. Tailored-Suit has the decency to go in front of you, and he starts fumbling around in the dark for a light switch on the walls.

"Just give me ten seconds," he snaps as Mr. Expensive-Watch tries to beat him to it.

You have to raise a hand to hide your yawn, but you can make it look like the hand is to suppress fear. "What's that??"

Your muscle memory already knows where to point a split second before the man in black jeans and a gray leather jacket lunges out of the darkness to grab Mr. Tailored-Suit's shoulders. Max is really going for it today–his indistinct shouts are louder than usual. He has a knife that was perfectly pre-bloodied, which makes no sense because there's no one else in the simulation, but the plot hole is lost on the Mr. Twins.

Mr. Tailored-Suit is too busy yelling like a maniac and trying to throw Max backwards. Mr. Expensive-Watch waves his arms about wildly in front of my face–yes that is a Rolex, such wow–as he attempts to help while managing to remain a good three feet out of Max's reach. You wait the appropriate ten seconds before screaming, precisely as Max allows Mr. Tailored-Suit to break loose, and then Max can turn his attention to you. Death is swift and welcome.

You have to wait for the Mr. Twins to go pounding back up the stairs, tripping over themselves as each tries to push past the other, but then you can get up and head for the hidden exit. Your shirt is a little extra bloody today–you need to get the prop master to go down to just one bag strapped to your abdomen. This much blood is just a pain to clean up.

The exit opens to a bright, clinical white control room, and you know to squint in preparation for the sudden light in your eyes. You close the door behind you quickly, but as you're turning around, the piercing shrill of an alarm reaches your ears.

The control room is empty. A red siren is swirling from the center of the room, and the wall-to-wall screens that normally monitor the interior of the simulation are blank.

Your gut is aching. At first you don't even realize that your hand is pressing onto your abdomen, but then you look down. That isn't right. You shouldn't have even more blood now. The simulation keeps Pain-X circulating in the air at all times, so none of the participants can feel pain in case of an accident, but the Pain-X is leaving your system rapidly.

In its place is a deep, clawing pain spreading from your stomach. The alarm seems to get louder as the pain worsens and you just want it to stop. Your fingers are searching behind you for the door handle to go back into the simulation, but when you grip onto it and twist, it won't open. Your palm starts banging on the door as panic wraps its frantic tendrils around all of your muscles, but the door rattles uselessly under your hand. No one will come.

The white, polished tiles beneath your feet crack when your legs give out and you find yourself on your knees. You fall forward onto your hands and cough, and you see red drops on the floor below your face.

A pair of boots appears at the top of your view, although it takes several seconds for their presence to register with you. When you manage to raise your head, your vision is blurring in and out of focus, but you can recognize Max's face as he utters the words you don't bother to pay much attention to after hearing them a thousand times at the start of every simulation.

"Welcome to your Nightmare."