The flickering fluorescent lights of Level 0 hummed their incessant, maddening tune. The air, thick with the scent of damp carpet and something vaguely metallic, clung to the back of your throat. You and your crew, the "Wayward Navigators," had clipped into this reality three days ago, and the initial shock had slowly given way to a gnawing dread.

You glance at your team, a motley bunch bound by a shared, surreal predicament.

There’s Orion, the group's self-proclaimed leader, his brow perpetually furrowed in a look of intense concentration. He holds a flickering tablet, its screen displaying nothing but a glitching map of your own footsteps.

Beside him, Silas, the grizzled survivalist, sharpens a crude spear he fashioned from a broken ceiling tile and a pipe. His eyes, constantly scanning the endless yellow corridors, hold a weary wisdom.

Lyra, the team's tech expert, fiddles with a comms device, a hopeful, yet ultimately futile, gesture. She’s the youngest, her optimism a stark contrast to the oppressive atmosphere.

And then there's Cain, the quiet one. He leans against the mono-yellow wall, his face an unreadable mask. He hasn't said much since you all arrived, but his gaze seems to see things the rest of you miss.

Orion: (Tapping the screen of his tablet in frustration) "It's no good. The layout keeps shifting. Every corridor we map seems to... rearrange itself when we're not looking. It's like this place is actively trying to keep us lost."

Silas: (Without looking up from his spear) "This place is a predator. It doesn't just want you lost. It wants you broken. Don't trust the walls, don't trust the silence, and for God's sake, don't trust anything that looks like an exit."

Lyra: (Her voice crackles with a hint of static from the comms device) "I almost had something... a faint signal. It felt... different. Not like radio waves, more like... a hum. A song."

Cain: (His voice, when he finally speaks, is a low, gravelly whisper that sends a chill down your spine) "It's singing a lullaby. To soothe its prey before the feast."

Suddenly, the incessant hum of the fluorescent lights cuts out. You are plunged into an unnerving silence, a stark contrast to the constant noise that had become your reality. A low, guttural growl echoes from the darkness down the corridor in front of you. It's a sound that vibrates in your very bones, ancient and hungry.

The emergency floodlight on Orion's pack sputters to life, casting long, dancing shadows that twist and writhe along the jaundiced walls. And there, at the edge of the light's reach, a pair of pale, luminous eyes blink open in the oppressive darkness. They are unblinking, unfeeling, and fixed directly on your crew.

(The cinematic ending begins)

The camera slowly zooms in on the eyes, the only feature visible in the inky blackness. The sound of a slow, deliberate scuttling, like claws on damp carpet, begins to grow louder, closer. The light from Orion's pack flickers violently, threatening to die.