Somewhere deep inside her mind, a bell rings. Someone's opened the box.
A thrill runs through her, the thrill of new flesh. She has only to think the thought and she is there.
It's a ratty studio apartment, lingerie and heroin needles strewn about everywhere, a strong odor coming from the cat box, a woman crouched in the corner, in her forties but looking much older, cringing yet defiant. And wanting it, yes, oh so badly.
One of the beings that stands before her was once a young woman named Niki, who loved and felt heartbreak and despair because of it. She can't remember any of that. Now she has neither name nor human memories, and the only thing she feels is pleasure.
"Time to play," the Cenobite says.