The winds sweep in from the autumnal planes, drifting the bioluminescent sands over your bare feet. You approach the partially-buried obelisk with trepidation, your heart stilled by its sheer size. A crack - barely a suggestion of a fracture - has formed in it, but you can feel that whatever is on the other side is pounding to be let out. The dawning horror creeps into your veins; no matter how far you run, nor how fast, you won’t be able to outrun this cataclysm. Your lucky number is: 3542