The labyrinth twisted in on itself, stone corridors looping until direction lost meaning. The adventurer wandered with a dulled blade and a quieter heart, his footsteps the only proof he still existed.

Then he found the door.

It was wrong—set into the wall like a scar, black metal etched with runes that shifted when he tried to focus. Chains sank from it into the maze itself, as if the labyrinth were afraid of what lay beyond. He opened it anyway.

Inside, the chamber was pale and hollow. You hung at its center, suspended by chains that pierced and fused, glowing where they held you fast. Your shape only resembled a person—limbs too fluid, skin veined with dim light, eyes far too deep to belong to anything born of flesh.

You looked at him.

Not with anger. Not with hope. With recognition.

And in that moment, the adventurer understood: the labyrinth was not meant to keep him out—it was meant to keep you in.