Favorite Musical Artist: Arsi "Hakita" Patala
"The fiercest serpent may be overcome by a swarm of ants." -Japanese Marshal Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto
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Level 399: The Neon Paradise is the Backrooms level I reside in.
The all-consuming snow falls from the far sky, hitting the steel body of the machine like a rain of arrows. The snowstorm is getting stronger - something that cannot be said about V1. Once a perfect murderer, the machine became nothing more than a metal puppet, controlled by it's own hunger for blood. But blood is absent. There is none. The white, cold wasteland, a place worse than the battlefield of Violence, is a place that no being should go to. No husk, no machine, not even an angel. No husk and no angel can survive without warmth, no machine can survive without fresh blood.
V1's bright colors clash with the surrounding whiteness. But soon that will change. Not even the bright yellow eye of the creature will be seen. All will fade in the freezing void.
The machine stops. Motionless. It finally realized the truth. This is the end of the line. No being lives here, nor beyond this place, forsaken even by hell. There is nothing after this torture. No way out.
The time had come. The creature suddenly slips, falls into a deep slumber. The loud noise from it's fall was not heard through the snowstorm. The yellow light had faded, but not gone. Just replaced with something better.
A new, glistening, golden shimmer fills the wasteland. The archangel had arrived. Gabriel emerges from the white fog for a final duel. But one thing is clear - The thing he came for is dead. Deceased with no trace of the killer, slowly buried under the heavy snow.
He was too late. Gabriel swore to God that he will fight the machine for the third, final time, but what now? Misery. Pure misery. All is lost.
...But is it truly lost?

A spark appeared in Gabriel. The fire that once was gone is now re-lit. He knew what to do, but it came with a heavy cost. A cost that was worth it.
Gabriel's sword now sat in his hand, waiting for a strike. The strike never came. Only a quick, painful slice.
Blood as red as hell coloured the bland white terrain, spilling out of the newly-formed wound. As the blood flowed down, some life was rebuilt. The yellow light was turned on once again. It is time for the final showdown.
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