On the farthest point of Long Island, the last scrap of land that still counts as New York, there sits a tremendous, abandoned building. Protected by its own isolated location, there are also, at any given time, two to three security guards there. However, if one approaches the cast iron gates on the night of December 4th, even those few security guards refuse to work. The gates are left unlocked and the wind will be utterly still, a nearly opaque fog filling the peninsula. Go directly to the main doors and step within; there will be a single long hallway, the end occluded by that fog.
If you look to either side upon entering, you will see a modern operating room through a glass door. The farther you walk, the older the equipment will get and the more old fashioned the doctors will be dressed. As you can finally see the end of the hallway, the screams of the patients will be nearly deafening. The hall will terminate in an open door leading to a single wooden table. A man in woolen medical clothing, stained brown from blood, will be bent over a corpse. The body's face will be covered; the man will turn silently, screwing the top onto a cloudy jar of liquid that's filled to the brim. He will hand this abnormally heavy object to you before turning back to his work. Instantly, you will be outside of those cast iron gates.
From that point on, disease and injury will never affect you, but if you ever open that cloudy jar and pull out the contents...you will find a heart, pulsing and beating loudly in your palm. A sudden feeling of horror and revulsion will pass through you as realization strikes that you have just pulled your own living heart from your chest.