Night 43: M51-M60 Hallway
The intercom's words grew more and more telling as the day neared its end. Faize now understood that to those running the institute, he and the other captives were the subjects of some sort of reeducation program, one which was responsible for the brainwashing of patients, visitors, and doctors alike. Next Wave, the announcements mentioned often.
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THERE'S A BARBECUE SPATULA IN YOUR WARDROBE. DOESN'T MATTER HOW IT GOT THERE. PUT IT TO GOOD USE.
MAKE A DIAGRAM OF YOUR SITUATION.
He rose from his chair, opening the wardrobe. Surely enough, his notes were right- there was a sharp, grilling spatula sitting on the floor of the wardrobe, just next to his shoes. Not even hidden well. It's a wonder the nurses haven't checked my room. He grabbed the handle of the utensil. Heavy. Guess I can fend for myself if I decide to explore a bit. He looked at his journal one more time, flipping to the maps he'd copied onto a few of the pages. I can find supplies for a diagram in the Arts and Crafts room, I guess. Makes sense a room with that name would have tape and paper.
Weapon in hand, he shoved his notes into his journal, grabbing his photos and shoving them with the book into his pockets. He threw his camera strap around his shoulder and headed out the door.
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