[Perceived] The chest appears mundane, crafted of simple wooden planks and banded with iron. The wood shows its age, graying and somewhat brittle to the touch. You reach cautiously forward to lift the lid, but stop suddenly as the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Panic grips your gut as you notice something—dried blood, just to the left of the chest’s lock.

[Triggered] There’s a whirring click, and your mind races to process the sudden pain that lances through the palm of your hand. As quickly as the hidden needle stabbed outward, it retracts with a snap, leaving your hand bloody. You grimace, and an abrupt fatigue overtakes you. Your vision begins to swim.

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