Up, up, up. Three more flights, four more doors. A standing lamp, low to the ground, a lantern hanging from a clothing hangar, and a flashlight lying on the ground, casting the shadow of one of your brethren on the wall. Not as handsome as you, of course.
At the top of the stairs, at the last platform, a single door inset into the wall. Above you, some sort layered metal sheet set into the ceiling … a trapdoor? Set into the left wall is a dust-coated, faded green panel, about twice as large as you.
Even as fear and shock, disgust and fascination, pain and shock, suffuse the mind; even as your brain and your stomach switch places; even as you realize that you are going to die - you’ve never died in a dream - even as you are caught by suit man, even as you are caught by pure self-consciousness, something … tickles … at the back of your mind.
Tasty.
Wait, what?