The assignment was simple.

A hidden tunnel in the mountains of Taiwan—abandoned, forgotten, and whispered about in hushed voices. Reports spoke of strange symbols carved into the stone, of flickering lights seen deep within the passage, and of the few who entered never returning.

You had followed the winding roads alone, your flashlight barely piercing the thick fog that clung to the mountainside. The entrance was just as the locals had described—an old railway tunnel, its rusted tracks vanishing into an abyss of darkness. Cold air spilled from within, carrying a scent of damp earth and something metallic.

Your camera whirred softly as you stepped forward, the echoes of your own footsteps bouncing back at you. The further you went, the more unnatural the tunnel became. The walls, once smooth stone, were now etched with jagged markings, spiraling in patterns that seemed to shift under your gaze.

Then, the tunnel opened into a vast underground chamber.

A cathedral, carved into the mountain itself.

Candles flickered in the distance, casting twisted shadows across towering columns. Hooded figures stood motionless along the walls, their elongated heads bowed as if in silent prayer. And at the center, seated upon a grand, bloodstained throne, was something watching you.

A figure draped in white, its face concealed behind a grotesque mask—painted features frozen in eerie serenity. A string of obsidian beads rested against its chest, glinting like dead eyes in the dim light. And above it, looming in the darkness, was an impossible shape—wheels within wheels, adorned with countless staring eyes.

The silence was suffocating. Then, a voice. Deep, layered, unnatural.

"You should not have come."

The doors behind you slam shut. The candles flicker. The hooded figures turn their heads—toward you.

You are no longer alone.