An old tungsten filament light hung from the ceiling by a black wire, flickering with dim, uneven light. The silence in the room spread like ink dropped into clear water-slowly permeating and expanding. In the center of the room was a large, weathered round table, its surface worn and aged. At the middle of the table stood a small, intricately designed clock, ticking away with a faint sound. Seated around the table were ten individuals, each dressed in a variety of tattered and dusty clothing. Their faces were smudged with dirt, and their expressions were weary. Some were slumped over the table; others leaned back in their chairs, all of them deeply asleep. Standing silently beside them was a man dressed in a black suit, wearing a goat-headed mask. Through the ancient, battered mask, his sharp eyes glimmered with interest as he observed the ten people. The clock on the table began to chime as both the minute hand and the hour hand pointed to "twelve." In the far distance outside the room, a deep, resonant bell echoed faintly. At that exact moment, the ten men and women seated at the round table began to slowly awaken. As they regained consciousness, they first looked around the room in confusion, then glanced at each other with puzzled expressions. It seemed no one remembered how they had arrived in this place. "Good morning, all nine of you," the goat-headed figure began, breaking the silence. "It's a pleasure to meet you here. You've all been asleep in my presence for the past twelve hours." The man's strange attire startled the group, especially in the dim, eerie light of the room. His mask looked as though it had been crafted from a real goat's head, with much of the hair yellowed, blackened, and matted together. The eyeholes of the mask were hollow, revealing his cunning, sinister eyes. Every movement of his emitted the distinct musky odor of a goat, combined with an unsettling scent of decay.