Clint's head aches as he finds himself in a spotlighted area, with no visible aforementioned spotlight in sight--only the red and white checkerboard under him.

A figure barely steps out of the darkness. Only their rotting, hooved, black-sludge bleeding legs are visible.

you have something I want.

Clint feels his heart race as thousands of long, thin, anorexic arms begin to not only grab him, but wrap around his body, creaking and breaking internally to stretch and wrap themselves atop of his limps and hold him tightly--like a snake choking its prey.

Many crawl up his face, as Pride cackles--the only thing loud enough to match their volume being the intensely loud snapping of bones and stretching of flesh as Clint feels one, two, and then three of the hands begin to dig their disgusting rotting fingers under his hair tuft, and then into his eyesocket.