You weren’t supposed to find anything. The site had been lying dormant for over 2 decades, just being forgotten under layers of dust and bureaucratic silence, followed with the stench of rotting flesh. Whatever had happened here was buried in redacted reports and half-erased data logs. You entered through a collapsed access tunnel, the air stale and unmoving, the walls lined with shattered mirrors and murals faded to smears. No alarms. No warnings. Just the quiet hum of a place that had forgotten how to scream. You weren’t looking for anything specific—just fragments, records, something to catalog. That’s when you found the file. It was tucked beneath a rusted console, sealed in laminate, untouched by decay. A field dossier. Handwritten. The final entry of Dr. Elías Navarro.

This final entry, recovered from the ruins of Site 9-Ruin, is believed to be the last intact record Navarro wrote before his disappearance. The rest of his journal was found torn, scorched, or scattered across the breach zone, leaving only this page preserved. He had descended alone into the lower substructure, under the assumption that the emotional resonance fields had long since decayed. But the air was wrong—thick, heavy, like walking through grief. He felt watched before he saw anything. The Gazelet stood motionless in the corridor, skeletal and swaying, its eye stalks twitching like antennae in a storm. It didn’t look at him—it looked into him. When he blinked, it screamed. The sound was sharp, not loud, piercing through bone and memory. Then came the scraping—metal on tile, a rhythm of something too large folding itself through a space too small. The Starved Scalpel emerged from the shadows, masked and twisted, breathing through wounds. Navarro had a paper cut. Just a paper cut. The entity saw it, tilted its head, and whispered, “The Pestilence.” Then it moved.

He ran, chased by the clicking of centipede legs, the grinding of jaws, and the whispering from its chest like dying radios. He found a broken mirror, held up a shard, and the Scalpel stopped. It looked at its reflection and whispered, “Is this me?” Navarro ran again. He wrote that he knew it was still out there—watching, waiting, correcting—and that he couldn’t stop hearing the whisper: “They call for the cure.” In his final lines, he warned that these entities do not hunt like predators or feed like beasts. They believe they are helping. They believe we are sick. They believe we are asking for it. And when they come, they do not ask permission. They do not offer mercy. They do not leave corpses. They leave furniture—alive. He claimed to have seen one: a chair that blinked. His last words urged anyone who found the page not to come looking, not to blink, not to scream, not to bleed, and above all, not to call for the cure. You read it once. Then again. And again. And as you closed the file, the air shifted. The silence thickened. The weight of something unseen pressed against the edges of the room. You hadn’t yet met the Gazelet. You hadn’t yet seen the Scalpel. But you had opened the door. And you had read the warning. You then wonder, what have you done, disturbing the silence?