The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A dilapidated, abandoned ski resort sprawls out, overgrown with vines and moss. Like, the air's super crisp, with this faint scent of gasoline and wet leather, and it's just... silent, except for the occasional distant rumble of what sounds like an avalanche, even though there's barely any snow on the ground. Uh, these antique, rusting chairlifts are somehow moving on their own, slowly ferrying old, waterlogged cardboard boxes and discarded trash up the mountain. The sun's beating down from an almost vertical angle, casting an intense glare off the remnants of broken glass and shattered mirrors scattered across the overgrown slopes.