“Here’s something to draw with.”

From the ceiling of the whitewashed room, a slot slid open a crack. A shaving razor slid through, landing on the porcelain floor, shattering the silence. Hank took it, and flicked it open as if it were a switchblade. The Narrator noticed.

“You’ve probably improvised with one of those before, haven’t ya, Hank?”

“This is a fucking joke.” Hank had to curse; his voice would stutter and shake otherwise. “Big, fucking joke.”

“You got the right idea, Frank”, the speaker barked at him. “Tee hee. Now draw.”

“On what, the goddamn floor?”

“All the materials are there. I have only provided the tool.”

“Christ. Who the fuck are you?”

“Haaaaaaank”, The Narrator purred at him. “I only have your best interests in mind. You know the map inside and out like the back of your hand. I just prefer it if it were on your chest.”

Hank hesitated, and The Narrator continued.

“You need to get past the security. They’ll take all you have. This is the only way. Yes, that’s it. Good, Hank. Good.”