The world fades to a low throb, light and darkness blending into one another to the point of not knowing what is blurred and what is black. The edges of your vision remain black, or blurred it's hard to tell with the lack of light, well the lack of distinction of light. The place your head is in is like a living contradiction, it reminds you of the tunnel and weird receptionist from your dream... it can't be... can it?
Your vision explodes, sudden and blinding distinction between light and dark shatters in the destructive blast that assaults your vision with animalistic intensity. The light becomes painful and the dark becomes blurry shadows, the black edges of your vision is blown away by the expanse of light that has temporarily blinded you with its thick light and raging intensity of its visual assault.
You blink rapidly, eyelids flapping frantically as they try to help you adapt quicker, attempting to blink out the sudden violent expanse of light that has filled your eyes and probably burned your corneas.
"Welcome back, I missed thee," an angelic voice cuts through the light, their dialect strange and mixed, their tone cool and soft. The light slowly reveals the silhouette of a desk with a small head poking out. You continue blinking rapidly as your eyes start adapting rapidly to the blinding torrent of light particles that have been relentlessly assaulting your peripheral vision. "thou dost not look happy to sight me," the voice says, a slight mocking edge twinges his voice. The same voice that had requested you call him the receptionist, the same voice that had challenged you to a game that you don't know how to play and what the rules are.
Your eyes narrow and continue their rapid blinking, your eyelids working overtime to help you overcome your sights evolutionary weakness of sudden light exposure. Slowly but surely the ageless and confusing features of the Receptionist's face. His face is girly and distinctly feminine, with his short white hair that, although you can't tell, glows faintly. His eyebrows arch up in a mocking and boyish gesture that hints his actual gender. His face is girly yet his expressions are clearly male as are his mannerisms and voice.
"Ist thou done gawking at me," he asks, the angelic voice is laced with mocking venom. The angelic nature of his voice is in direct contrast to the tone he takes, the mocking and unkind tone that he has drenched his heavenly voice in feels wrong to you. Whether for religious reasons, or not his voice and presence are uncomfortable and only add to the contradictory aspect of wherever you are.
"Shut up, who are you?" Your voice comes out angry and irregular, annoyed and nervous. The voice of someone who is angry at their predicament but unsure whether they want to know the whole truth yet. "Why my pal, have you truly forgotten me? surely not my good sir... I'm the Receptionist and you are here to play my game and try to get your full lifespan back." The Receptionist explains easily, voice smooth and almost condescending, each word spoken with spite and annoyance.
Your pupils blow wide in shock and slight horror, it wasn't a dream, it was real, you generally died. The thought makes you sick to your stomach, your hand gropes at your stomach where the knife had entered a week ago. There is no raised skin, no pain, you look down at your flesh, lifting your shirt to reveal smooth, lean and muscular midsection. The skin unmarred by the recent stabbing and the skin looks healthier than before.
"Thou physique takeths on it's most healthy form my friend," the Receptionist explains as her sees your reaction to the too healthy flesh of your body, the slightly more prominent muscle definition. You stare at wonder at your body, the flex of your biceps and the tensing of your forearms. The effects this place had on your body is both surprising, pleasing and disturbing. It feels like your a different person, too muscular, too perfect skin and most likely too perfect hair. Everything that made you look like you felt not you despite being you. "Thou art in tip top shape, thy appearance and muscle mass is that of thou most optimal time," the Receptionist gloates.
You mull what that means in your head, 'optimal condition'. You were only ever close to this when you go to the gym and get a really good pump... Wait that means that you are currently in a state of constant pump (with hair from when your friends had dared you to act like a homosexual while getting your hair done which resulted in you getting the best hair you have ever had). That means your strength output will be more, everything will be more. But why give you such an unfair advantage, what type of game had this demonic boy with an angelic voice concocted to justify giving you the best condition you've ever been in.
"Why would you help me?" You ask suspiciously, eyes narrowing contemptuously, the Receptionist smirks evilly, making his cute-ish appearance warp into something horrifically satanic, "cuz, good sir, You'll need it." those words send shivers down your spine in unpleasant archs of fear and foreboding. The beautiful blue eyes of the Receptionist are tinged red, flecks of Hell's colour bleeding through the sweet innocence of his blue irises. The atmosphere starts to spiral into something more like a death sentence then a contradictory reception room that was bathed in too much light.
The danger that has pierced the air finally makes it dawn on you. The face of this little devil in front of you makes it dawn on you. It finally truly dawns on you that you have gambled your soul in a game of life and death that will either prolong your life or doom your soul to damnation until this prick in front of you is satisfied.