17 February 2026
Tuesday. Somebody is helping my survivors. A calm voice, in the lab, at exactly the moment a team gets stuck. I have searched the ceiling. There is nobody in the ceiling.
The staff say it is the gamesmaster, who follows every session and sends a hint whenever a team asks, or whenever the cure starts to look less like a cure and more like soup. I said that sounds like cheating. They said it sounds like customer service. We have agreed to disagree, in writing.
In fairness, my notes are not easy. Nothing in the lab is hidden especially well; I never had time to hide anything. The trouble is working out what my notes mean, with Gerald hammering on the glass an arm’s length away. I rate the difficulty seven out of ten. The staff rate it seven out of ten. It is the only thing we have ever agreed on.
Today a team of first-timers came through. They argued, they asked for help twice, they shrieked once, and they finished the cure. I was so proud I ate a whole packet of biscuits. Then I remembered whose cure they were finishing, and ate another out of spite.
Gerald does not get hints. Gerald does not need them.
— Dr Morrow, Storeroom B
