The abandoned Catholic boarding school loomed over the hill like a monument to forgotten sins. Y/N stepped through the decaying doors, the air thick with rot and incense long gone stale. Every hallway whispered tragedy — the faint smell of wax, the echo of hymns still lingering in the chapel. On the dusty walls, Y/N found old letters and photographs of the students — among them, Janie McDonnell, the sick girl whose death had been buried in silence. The deeper Y/N went, the more the building seemed to breathe, groaning under the weight of something unholy.

But then came the sound — click, scrape, drag. The Nun was awake. Her habit brushed against the walls, the sound of chains and slow, purposeful steps echoing down the corridor. Y/N quickly killed the flashlight and crouched under a bed, heartbeat hammering in their chest. Mother Apollonia moved like she owned the shadows, whispering prayers that dissolved into guttural laughter. For a moment, it seemed she passed — until her steps stopped right beside the bed. The metal frame creaked. Y/N dared not breathe. Then the world exploded into chaos — the bed flipped, wood cracking, her hollow eyes glaring down in divine fury.

Y/N bolted through the hall, past cracked stained glass and the corpse still displayed in the chapel like a sainted warning. Every corner became a gamble — the creak of a door, the faint glimmer of light that could give them away. They found pages torn from a priest’s journal, speaking of “Mother Apollonia’s purification rites” and “the sacrifice of Janie for redemption.” The words blurred in panic as footsteps returned, faster this time. Y/N slipped into the vents, crawling through the narrow metal passage, only to hear the scrape of fabric and breath behind them — she was following.

Bursting through the other side, Y/N stumbled into the headmistress’s office, a single candle burning beside a crucifix turned upside down. Files lay scattered — Janie’s medical report, letters from her mother begging the school to stop the “treatments.” The truth burned into Y/N’s mind just as a scream tore through the air behind them. The door splintered. The Nun’s silhouette filled the doorway, knife in hand, whispering: “Confess, child.” Y/N hurled the lantern into the curtains, flames catching on ancient cloth as they fled through a collapsing hallway. The fire roared behind them, consuming the chapel, the portraits, and perhaps the Nun herself — but her voice still lingered in the smoke: “This is not your salvation… it’s your trial.”