Floor B3…

Zack felt wrung dry.

It had been nightmare enough fighting for his life—arguing over who got to kill Rachel with some necrophiliac thirteen-year-old who claimed he was in love with her. Now he had to brace himself for whatever waited on the other side of the elevator doors.

Except when the elevator opened, there was… nothing.

No maze-like walls. No dirt. No rot.

Just a pristine, immaculately decorated space.

Elegant wood flooring stretched beneath their feet, polished to a dull gleam. The walls were a deep wine-red, Victorian in style, trimmed with black paneling. A chandelier hung overhead, its dangling rubies catching the light. Plush, expensive furniture was arranged throughout the house-like floor, but even that couldn’t disguise how unnervingly spacious it all was.

It looked like a home.

A nice one.

What kind of nightmare could possibly hide in a place like this?

As they explored, they eventually found a bedroom. The same refined flooring and walls, the same chandelier—only here there was a large circular bed dressed in satin sheets, a vanity with a record player placed neatly atop it, and a door that likely led to a bathroom. The closet stood out too, wide and dark, as if it swallowed light.

Before Zack could voice his suspicions, Rachel was already asleep at the foot of the bed—her body giving up before her mind had a chance to argue.

Guess he was alone with his thoughts now.

His scythe dipped, heavy in his grip, mirroring the weight settling across his shoulders.