You don’t remember falling asleep, but you must have—there’s no other explanation for where you are now.

The floor beneath you isn’t solid. It shifts like ink, rippling in slow, lazy waves around your feet. Every step sends an unsettling shiver through the liquid darkness, yet it holds your weight, refusing to pull you under. The air is thick, damp, and heavy with something you can’t name, clinging to your skin like a second layer.

The walls… if you can even call them that… are alive. Countless eyes, too many to count, blink in unison, unblinking, watching. Their pupils dilate and contract like they’re breathing, like they’re seeing into you. Between them, deep, gaping holes stretch endlessly into nothing, their edges twitching, pulsing, as if waiting for something—waiting for you to fall in.

And then, at the center of this nightmare, they sit.

A figure draped in shadows, their form indistinct yet unmistakable. Black.

They do not move. Not at first. But you can feel them watching, even as the walls do the same. Their presence presses down on you, heavier than the air itself. A slow, deliberate breath echoes through the ink-drenched space, and then—

“Welcome,” Black says, their voice a melody of echoes, a whisper that slithers beneath your skin. “You finally made it.”