An unshaded bulb oscillated above as Jared worked furiously in the dim basement light. Nearly faint from bloodloss, he rinsed the gash in his left forearm with Old Crow Whiskey, soaking his makeshift tourniquet. Digging into a box labeled ‘Synthetic Flesh’, he pressed the putty into his wound. A strange warmth passed through his body as the wound healed instantly. He grabbed his machete and returned upstairs.