The corridor stretched endlessly, its walls a oppressive gray. Your limbs ached, and your breath came in shallow gasps. You could still feel the weight of fear pressing down on your chest, the image of Mr. Machete etched into your mind. Running had been the only choice, though it have taked strength from you— now your body felt smaller, frailer. the corridor ended at a door. Your fingers slick with sweat and grime closed around the cold metal of a door handle. With a trembling pull, the door creaked open to reveal a figure that froze you in place. He impossibly tall. A hood draped low over his face—or where a face should have been—revealed only an abyss of darkness, a void. His body, cloaked in a brown cape gave the impression of something not entirely real. You didn't recoil in fear because you already knew him. At the beginning of your journey, he taught you a few words in their language. He didn't pose any harm to you. now, he uttered something in the strange language of this place, words that you only half-understood but which carried no malice. Instead, there was a quiet curiosity in his tone, a note of surprise at your smallness. Without a word, he reached down and lifted you effortlessly into his arms. His touch was neither warm nor cold—it was an absence of sensation, as though he were not truly there. You were too drained to insist on walking on your own. Carried in his arms, the corridor seemed less daunting, though its monotony persisted. The walls bore no markings, no signs to guide you or hint at an end to this labyrinthine expanse. Time lost its meaning; the rhythm of his steps and the faint hum of his cloak brushing against the floor became the only constants. At one point, he paused. He set you down gently in a room that felt eerily familiar. You had been here before—this table, this chair. He pointed a finger at the table and uttered words in his fragmented speech—a question. He wanted to know if you remembered what it was called in their language.