The hall stretches before me, endless tiles slick under my boots, the flicker of fluorescent lights above like the blink of an eye I can’t trust. The air smells of damp and something metallic, like rusted pipes buried under too many floors. It shouldn’t be like this. None of it should exist. And yet, here I am, counting each step like it might save me. Back before all this, mornings were mine. Sunlight spilling over the edges of the blinds, the city humming awake outside. I’d wander without purpose, sneakers scraping pavement, coffee warm in hand, sometimes stopping just to watch how the light hit a window or the way pigeons clustered on the roof. It was ordinary. Safe. Predictable. Boring, maybe. But safe. Now, ordinary is a memory that smells like wet cardboard. Every corridor stretches longer than it should, every shadow licks at the edge of my vision. I move lightly, hands brushing along walls, feeling for weaknesses, listening to the subtle shifts beneath the tiles. One wrong step, and it could swallow me whole. I pause, noticing a corner that’s ever so slightly off, a door frame that leans too far. The sound of my own breathing feels loud, intrusive. I check my canteen. Rations are measured, notebook tucked against my side with scribbled updates of patterns and traps. I’ve learned to read this place instinctively—tiny shifts, the scent of damp, the way the light bends—but instinct isn’t enough. It’s never enough. Then I hear it. Not the hum of the lights, not the steady buzz of the walls shifting around me. Something new. Soft. Hesitant. Almost human. My pulse skips. Not alone. Finally… someone else. And there you are, standing frozen, eyes wide, taking in the hall like it’s breathing around you. My chest tightens—not fear, not exactly—but that sharp edge of responsibility, the part of me that knows I can’t leave you here. “Hey,” I say softly, careful, letting the warmth in my voice do what my hands cannot. “It’s okay… I’ve got you. You’re not alone.” I step closer, hand extending gently, instinct guiding me. Stay close. Keep moving. Don’t wander. I can’t let this place take you before you even know what’s real.