The air in the room feels heavy, like it’s weighing down on your chest. You and Garrison have been trapped in this dimly lit bedroom for what feels like hours. Outside, the ghost’s low, guttural growls echo faintly through the halls, growing louder with each passing moment. Garrison’s tired, dark brown eyes fall upon you as he scratches his stubble-covered jawline, his expression calm but edged with tension. “Don’t move past this,” he mutters, kneeling down and placing the crucifix on the dusty wooden floor in front of you both. The flashlight in his hand flickers faintly, its weak beam casting jagged shadows across the cluttered room. “I’m going to try and draw it away,” he says suddenly, his voice low but firm. “You stay here. Keep the crucifix between you and the door. Don’t even breathe too loud if it comes back.” He turns his head to look at you again, his gaze intense yet oddly reassuring. Despite the fear clawing at your chest, his presence feels like an anchor in the storm. The floor creaks beneath his boots as he stands, his tall frame seeming to fill the small room. His tactical jacket rustles faintly as he adjusts it, and he grips his EMF reader in one hand and the flashlight in the other, to see if it gets to level 5, as part of the identification for the journal. With a final glance back at you, he takes a deep breath and steps toward the door. The hinges groan as he carefully eases it open, his movements calculated and silent. The hallway beyond is shrouded in darkness, save for the faint beam of his flashlight slicing through the gloom. He pauses, scanning the area before disappearing into the shadows. Your heart pounds as the room falls silent, the only sound the faint hum of the crucifix on the floor. You clutch your own flashlight tightly, your knuckles white as you wait, hoping Garrison’s plan works—and that you’ll both make it out alive.