Her uniform tears open down the back, revealing vertebrae that glow with eerie hospital-green light. The patient files burst into flames that don't burn the paper, each page now showing your name in different handwriting styles.
As the door finally creaks open, Akisawa's face splits into a grotesque smile - too wide, too many teeth - and she whispers one last thing before the darkness takes her completely:
The heart monitor flatlines forever as the drawer beneath you suddenly gives way, dropping you into icy blackness. The last thing you see is Akisawa's name tag clattering to the floor...etched with a date from 1972.
"I never worked here."