For the longest second, Orwell could not determine whether his eyes were closed or open. Eventually his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and picked up on a faint, green glow of the watch on his left wrist. There was a strange, sharp pain on the back of his right hand, leading him to believe a terrible accident had just happened - until he realized that he was surrounded by wood - rotting, based on the stale scent - and that the wood was in a strangely regular shape, reminiscent of a box. The faint sound of two voices - one male, the other female - as well as dull thuds rallied against the thick silence, though all were muffled by the space Orwell found himself barred in. All he could think of was Corvus, and a cold bolt of fear shot through him. Was this it? He grit his teeth and thrashed about, fists and feet bashing against the wooden constraints, unwilling to accept the end without a fight. Cracks of light came through on the third kick, Orwell found himself kicking straight through the wood and into the air, then he pushed the remainder of the cover away to the side and leapt out of the box. Only then did he realize, in the dim light, that the box was a coffin, and that the back of his hand bore a gristly wound in the crude, yet unmistakable shape of the number seven. In the midst of scattered splinters, a folded piece of thick paper, a ring, as well as a small key was among the debris on the floor. To avoid dirtying the items with his blood, he ripped a piece of cloth from the hem of his shirt and wrapped it around the dripping wound, before picking up the items and stashing them in his pocket. He then looked around and finally saw the source of the voices he had heard. There was a dark-haired young man and a much younger girl standing within the vicinity of coffins similar to the one he had just broken out of. The blood-shot energy of fear and confusion darkened their ever-roving eyes and the similar wounds on their hands lead Orwell to surmise that they, too, were brought here, without their consent. His mind flew back to the items he had found and he turned away from the two to reach into his pocket. Seeing the familiar smiles of the people in the picture drove Orwell's mind into a tailspin, the ache of the wound on his hand forgotten in the midst of this new, and awful discovery. He closed his eyes and steeled himself, placing the picture back in his pocket before turning to address those who had already made it out of their coffins. "Something bad must have happened to us, to find ourselves here."