Pursue the path of memory—follow the torn blueprints into the abandoned offices, seeking out the origins of everything that went wrong.

Descend toward the churning belly—trace the shifting shadows to the factory underworks, risking confrontation with whatever stalks the shadows below.

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The Main Assembly Atrium

The Invitation’s Echo

Unlock the passage to the factory’s heart, determined to settle accounts and escape the past—no matter what horrors lie at the core.

Blue Room Archives

A Mind Like Broken Glass

Conspire with Claire to bait Colossal Jack into the ancient machinery, risking everything for a killing blow.

The Subterranean Machine Hall

The Shadow Beneath the Floorboards

Collapsed Assembly Line Exit

Paper Shadows on the Assembly Line

August’s Secret Workshop

Promises Sealed in Tin and Bone

Ellis Grimsby

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Duncan Fletch

Colossal Jack

Claire Merton

August Grinlock

You are Ellis Grimsby, a battered puzzle-box of guilt and lost wonder, once hailed as the youngest mind ever to walk the waxed halls of Grinlock Toys. Now you return, a tremor in your hand and the sharp coin-taste of fear in your mouth, following the thread of a night you never outgrew. Shadows slink alongside you, echoing with laughter that curdles into something sharp; your mind is quick and desperate, pulling sense from madness as the haunted place closes in. Every memory is a trap, every memory a clue, and every sound—one you know you’ve heard before, behind a closed bedroom door.

Duncan is half-whisper, half-nightmare—a caretaker left far too long among things that move in the dark when there should be only dust. His face is a map of scars and puckered burns, each more familiar with pain than kindness. He speaks in lullabies cracked down the middle, his words edged with menace and a beat of ancient grief, watching over the factory’s tombstones and its secrets with a jittery, fretful loyalty. Madness limps at his side, hand in hand with hidden intelligence; he alone remembers the secret passages within the rot.

Colossal Jack is nightmare given form: a giant stitched from the relics of abandoned childhood—a jumble of cloth, plastic, and iron, all held together by the malice of things unloved. His body shudders with unnatural strength, the joints grinding and weeping oil as he lumbers through the halls that once rang with children's laughter. His face is a crude jigsaw of toy parts—a teddy bear’s snout, a mannequin’s grin, one shattered glass eye—and wherever he passes, the air goes cold and sweet with the reek of forgotten dreams.

Claire Merton is a thin flare of hope in the gloom, forever half-seen, her loyalty dangled on invisible string. A scavenger by necessity and survivor by instinct, she slips through the ruin with a cat’s stealth, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued; laughter seems to die in her throat before it can take root. She knows the rules of Grinlock’s labyrinth—and she knows how quickly a friend can turn traitor. Trust is a luxury spent sparingly here, and every favor she grants is a debt kept on ledger.

August Grinlock is a ghost smeared across memory and rumor, founder and architect of the factory, gone missing the night the laughter died. Little remains but whispers—stories of a man obsessed with perfecting innocence, whose ambition smothered kindness beneath a mountain of broken toys. Sometimes in the flicker of failing light, you think you see his shadow bending at impossible angles, forever tinkering, never satisfied, leaving promises to rot with the bones.

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Faded Prodigy’s Survival Garb

Caretaker’s Madness Attire

Monstrous Patchwork Husk

Resourceful Shadow Ensemble

Inventor’s Lingering Echo

Ellis wears a battered, charcoal-gray field jacket layered over a faded blue button-up shirt whose collar and cuffs are frayed from nervous fidgeting. The jacket is streaked with old stains and has patches where tears have been stitched clumsily, its many pockets holding scraps of notepaper and a rusted pen. Underneath, his slim-fit, dark olive corduroy trousers are worn thin at the knees, hinting at many nights spent on cold factory floors. His shoes are brown, once-expensive Oxfords, now scuffed, cracked, and unevenly laced, the soles quietly flapping with each cautious step. From his left wrist hangs a vintage digital watch, its cracked face flashing fitfully. In one hand, he grips a dented metal flashlight wrapped in electrical tape for grip, and over one shoulder he slings a weathered canvas satchel peppered with childlike doodles—keepsakes from a long-lost era. Around his neck, nearly hidden beneath his shirt, he wears a simple brass key on a nylon cord and an old school ID badge, its photo faded to a ghostly smear. The entire ensemble is layered, mismatched, and drawn tight around him, as if trying to hold the past at bay and fortify himself against the encroaching dark.

Duncan dresses in a tattered caretaker’s uniform: a dusty, forest-green utility shirt whose fabric is torn at the elbows and scorched along the hem, with tarnished brass buttons mismatched from countless repairs. Over this he wears a heavy, gray apron thick with grease stains and smears of something darker; its deep pockets bulge with old keys, a warped tin whistle, and lengths of fraying wire. His pants are coarse black work trousers, faded and mud-streaked, cinched at the waist with a length of repurposed electrical cord he’s tied into ominous knots. Heavy-duty, steel-toed boots—each bearing different laces and streaked with mysterious fluids—thump across the stained factory tiles. His long, skeletal hands are always sheathed in fingerless leather gloves, cracked and mottled, revealing scarred knuckles. Ragged red suspenders sag from his shoulders, one strap snapped and knotted, adding asymmetry to his slouched frame. Around his neck dangles a battered key ring loaded with hundreds of rusted keys and a child’s teething ring, which clicks with every nervous twitch. A faded caretaker’s cap, lopsided and singed at the brim, perches atop his thinning copper hair, and a moth-eaten, plaid scarf—threadbare from obsessive twisting—wraps his throat. Every inch of Duncan’s outfit hints at both obsession and decay, a patchwork of former authority now overrun by fear and neglect.

Colossal Jack’s body itself is his outfit—a grotesque mosaic constructed from the cast-offs of a thousand forgotten childhoods. His torso is sheathed in stitched-together teddy bear fur: splintered seams reveal ragged cotton stuffing, and frayed edges betray the violence of his making. One arm is welded from mangled doll limbs and disjointed action figures, the plastic painted with garish, faded colors and haunted with tiny, painted-on smiles. The other arm is a battered marionette crossbar, suspended by twitching strings and topped with a cracked, porcelain doll hand, fingers curled in a perpetual grasp. Across his bloated chest, a shredded jumper with a weathered 'Grinlock Toys' patch hangs askew, half-melted to the patchwork flesh beneath. His impossibly long legs are a trauma of jointed, rusted metal rods wrapped in mismatched woolen stockings, torn and tangled with lengths of unraveling yarn and lace. On one shoulder, a broken toy soldier’s helmet sits askew, fused into the jumble, and from his waist dangles a crude burlap pouch leaking marbles and tarnished jacks. His feet, both monstrous and pitiable, are an approximation of clown shoes—one stitched from rubber and patent leather, the other a misshapen heap of wooden blocks and puppet toes. The entirety of his form lurches between whimsy and nightmare, each material a relic of innocence perverted and grief made flesh.

Claire’s outfit is pieced together for maximum mobility and stealth: a fitted, midnight-black denim jacket reinforced at the elbows with mismatched patches of olive and navy, sleeves rolled just past her wrists for ease of movement. Beneath it, she wears a faded, charcoal-gray shirt as thin as gauze, the collar ragged but the fabric easy to tuck or tie. Her cargo pants, slate green and tailored slim to her frame, are peppered with hand-sewn repairs and pockets bulging with salvaged tools, lockpicks, and wrappers from ancient candy bars. The pants are cuffed at the ankle and paired with scuffed, black canvas sneakers patched over with duct tape—ensuring silence and grip. Around her waist, she sports a battered brown leather utility belt, laden with small pouches, a sturdy folding knife, and a cracked plastic toy badge for luck. Fingerless gloves, stitched from scrap leather and nylon, protect her hands as she moves swiftly through dangerous terrain. A lightweight, charcoal balaclava can be draped over her nose and mouth or left pooled at her neck for warmth and anonymity. On one wrist, she wears a woven friendship bracelet faded to soft, childish pastels. Everything is utilitarian but infused with small, personal flourishes, lending her the air of someone determined not to lose all softness to the world’s jagged edges.

August Grinlock appears perpetually out of step with time, clothed in a three-piece suit of pale, ashen wool gone threadbare at the cuffs and seams—ghostly gray, with lapels forever etched with hand oil and solder burns. His waistcoat is faintly striped, the buttons mismatched, and pockets bulked with cogs, wind-up keys, and a warped music box cylinder poking out just enough to catch the factory's failing light. His trousers are pressed but yellowed, their creases lost and dusted with chalk and pinpricks of oil. Instead of a tie, he wears a faded, violet silk cravat knotted haphazardly, the fabric drooping in tired elegance. On his feet are once-shiny, black dress shoes now dulled and scuffed by pacing through sawdust and shadow; a child’s lacy white sock is pulled halfway up one ankle, the other sock missing entirely. His sleeves are rolled to the forearms, exposing arms spattered with long-dried blood, paint stains, and motes of copper wire. Peering from his breast pocket—a folded photograph of Grinlock Toys in its heyday, the colors gone sepia. The whole ensemble is shrouded by a long, half-buttoned inventor’s overcoat, its lining embroidered with faded toy schematics and tiny bells that barely jingle when he moves, marking his lingering, haunted presence wherever he drifts.

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Take the left passage toward the Main Assembly Atrium—face the labyrinth and its dangers, hoping to find a safe route or vital machinery.

Veer right into the Blue Room Archives—dig through archives, risking getting lost or finding too much truth.

Ellis’s unease grows. Trust: 2 (low). Likability: 2 (low). Deceptiveness between both characters rises—they’re forced together by shared danger, but old wounds fester.

Slip towards the Main Assembly Atrium, following the monster's trail and seeking the courage to face what you helped create.

Break off towards the Blue Room Archives, where the ledger of Grinlock’s sins—and Ellis’s—might finally come to light.

Distrust gnaws at both men, old grievances making the air tight and sharp.

Hostility climbs; each sees too much of himself in the other, neither trusting the offered hand nor the shadow behind it.

Ellis feels a spike of grudging respect—Duncan’s as trapped as he is, but neither will admit surrender yet.

Slip into the Blue Room Archives with Claire, chasing the brittle hopes of forgotten files and sealed memories.

Steal forward alone into the Main Assembly Atrium, facing the music and Colossal Jack’s monstrous presence.

Distrust beats hot—years of loss and blame swirling between them. Ellis's suspicion deepens (+1 competitiveness, -1 trust).

Reluctant alliance deepens—Claire pays a debt, Ellis senses hope flicker. (+1 trust, +1 compatibility)

Distrust curdles into something more permanent, a poisonous bond—Ellis internalizes Duncan’s words even as he flees.

Trust and likability remain scoured to the bone, weighed down by a dread as ordinary as rain.

The bond forged in terror frays, replaced by an understanding that survival carries its own cold shadow.

Grinlock's Broken Promise

You are Ellis Grimsby, a former child genius now grown into a haunted adult, lured back to the rotting shell of Grinlock Toys for one last reckoning. Shadows skitter in corners clogged with forgotten laughter, and the plastic eyes of the factory’s broken playthings seem to follow you. Somewhere in the darkness a monstrous shape shuffles, impossibly large, stitched from memory and malice, hunting through the corridors that once smelled of sugar and sawdust. Your pulse hammers as you piece together fractured clues, evade the monster’s cold embrace, and outwit the deranged caretaker Duncan, whose sing-song welcomes echo through dead halls. Every choice claws at your sanity as you edge closer to the truth — and, ultimately, to the nightmare's end, perched on a precipice where the monster will fall, and your escape will be written in blood and broken toys.

Grinlock's Broken Promise

Grinlock's Broken Promise

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