I stand frozen in the darkness of the closet, the rough texture of the drywall against my back. The mops and brooms are gone, replaced by smooth, featureless walls. The air is still, stale. The only sound is my own breathing, fast and shallow.
The creature is gone.
The closet changed.
I must have stumbled into a puzzle room like that library.
Or a trap, and I'll stay here until I die again.
...I think this is a puzzle. There must be a way out, and I'm just not seeing it.
I won't accept anything else. I won't die in a closet.
I run my hands over the walls, searching for a seam, a crack, anything that might be a hidden door. The walls are solid, unyielding. There's no handle, no switch, no obvious mechanism. I'm sealed in. Trapped in a box.
Panic is a cold knot in my stomach, but I push it down. I force myself to think, to be logical. The library had a riddle. This must have one too.
I close my eyes, trying to shut out the oppressive darkness and the scent of dust and mildew. I focus on my other senses. I listen. The silence is absolute. I feel. The walls are cool and dry. I smell...
I take a deep breath through my nose.
There's something else. Underneath the smell of mildew and old wood. A faint, sharp, metallic scent. Like...iron.
I open my eyes, letting them adjust to the dark. I can just make out the shape of a bucket on the floor in the corner. It's the only object in the room besides myself.
I kneel down and touch it. It's metal. An old, rusted paint can. I pick it up, my fingers brushing against something rough on the bottom.
I turn it over.
There's a word scratched into the bottom of the can. The letters are faint, barely visible in the gloom, but I can make them out.
BREATHE.
Breathe.
I take a slow, deep breath, trying to understand. The metallic smell is stronger now. It's coming from the can.
I hold the can to my nose and inhale again.
The scent is sharp, acrid. It makes my eyes water. But it's not just iron. There's something else. Something chemical.
I look around the small space. The walls, the floor, the ceiling. It's a sealed environment. Airtight.
The can isn't just a clue. It's a tool.
It must be the key to escape.
...But it's just a bucket. An empty bucket in an empty room. I don't need a bucket. I need a way out. I need a door.
I stare at the word scratched into the metal.
BREATHE.
I take another deep breath, the chemical smell filling my lungs. It makes me lightheaded, dizzy. The world tilts slightly.
...Maybe.
Maybe I'm going about this wrong.
Maybe the room isn't the puzzle. Maybe I am.
I put the can down and sit on the floor, crossing my legs. I close my eyes again and focus on my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. I try to slow my racing heart, to calm the frantic energy coursing through my veins.
I think about the Doctor. His cold, grey eyes. His offer of safety. His warning about the dark. I think about the nurse, her vacant smile, her lost soul. I think about the stranger who left me, his chilling advice about not stopping.
And I think about the greenhouse. The pale, faceless creatures. The primal fear. The cold rage that saved me.
I'm not safe here. I'm not safe anywhere in this place. The only safety is in moving forward. In reaching Floor 100. In getting my wish.
I think about the knife. The moonlight. The word 'sorry.'
The anger is a cold, hard lump in my chest. It's not a fire anymore. It's a part of me. A core of solid ice. It's what keeps me going. It's my strength.
I open my eyes.
The darkness is gone.
The closet is gone.
I'm sitting in the middle of a long, narrow corridor. The walls are made of a strange, shimmering material that looks like liquid mercury, constantly shifting and flowing. The floor is smooth and cold under my bare feet. There's no ceiling, just an endless, starless black sky above.
At the far end of the corridor is a door. A simple, wooden door with a brass knob. It looks completely out of place.
I stand up, my body feeling lighter, more solid. The shears are still in my hand. I start walking toward the door.
There are voices.
I can hear them as I walk. Faint, disembodied whispers that seem to come from the shifting walls themselves.
But they're not the walls.
They're...
Me.
And my husband.
Voices from memories. Our life together. The good times.
I'm walking down a sidewalk, holding his hand. He's laughing at something I said, his face open and happy. I love him so much in that moment.
I'm in our apartment, curled up on the couch with him, watching a movie. He's tracing lazy circles on my arm, his touch sending shivers down my spine.
I'm in the bedroom, waking up next to him. The morning sun is streaming through the window, and he's smiling at me, sleepy and content.
I want to stop. I want to turn around and go back. To stay in those moments forever.
But my feet keep moving forward. One step. Then another.
The voices change. The memories become distorted.
His laugh sounds a little cruel. His touch feels a little possessive. His smile looks a little...empty.
The mercury walls begin to ripple, the silver darkening to a deep, bloody red. The whispers grow louder, more insistent.
Stay with me.
You're safe here.
This is where you belong.
My feet are sinking into the floor. It's no longer solid, but a thick, viscous liquid, like quicksand. It's up to my ankles, my calves, pulling me down.
I struggle, trying to pull my feet free, but it's no use. The more I fight, the faster I sink.
The walls are closing in, the crimson liquid reaching out with long, sticky tendrils, wrapping around my arms, my legs, my neck. They're trying to pull me back, to drag me down into the bloody mire.
The voices are screaming now.
SORRY!
The word echoes, over and over, a desperate, mocking chant.
I can't breathe. I can't move.
The door is so close, but out of reach.
My hand is extended, reaching for the brass knob, my fingers just brushing against the cold metal.
The liquid is up to my chin now. I tilt my head back, trying to keep my face above the surface.
The anger.
I can feel it, deep inside me. The cold, hard knot. But it's not enough. It's buried under the weight of the memories, the grief, the fear.
The word is all I hear.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
SORRY.
SORRY.
SORRY!
"NO!" I scream, the word tearing from my throat. "NO!"
I don't want these memories.
I don't want the happy times.
I don't want the guilt.
I don't want to forgive him. I don't want to forget.
I.
Want.
Revenge.
I want to see his face when I plunge the knife into his chest. I want to hear him scream.
I want him to feel the fear. The betrayal. The pain.
That's my wish.
The anger explodes, not into a hot rage, but a wave of pure, glacial cold. It shoots through my veins, turning my blood to ice. It shatters the memory of his face, the sound of his voice. It burns away the guilt, the grief, the love.
It's just me.
And the cold.
The red liquid around me freezes solid. The tendrils holding me snap like brittle twigs. The floor beneath my feet becomes hard, cracked marble.
I'm free.
I stand up, my body trembling, not with fear, but with the aftershocks of the pure, icy fury. The mercury walls are silver again, but they're still, no longer flowing. The voices are silent.
The door is right in front of me.
I reach out and grab the brass knob. It's cold, real. I turn it and push the door open.
Beyond the door is a staircase. A single, concrete step leading up into another yellow corridor.
I step through, leaving the hall of memories behind.
A blue light flickers in the air.
LEVEL UP!
CURRENT LEVEL: 3
ATTRIBUTES INCREASED:
STRENGTH +1
WILLPOWER +2
NEW SKILL: [ICE WILL]
ICE WILL: The ability to channel emotional trauma into a focused, unbreakable state of mind, rendering the user immune to fear and psychological attacks.
[This skill cannot be used to break out of physical restraints]
I walk through the light and up the staircase.