The air on Floor 3 is hot. And dry.
The moment I step off the staircase, a wave of heat washes over me, a stark contrast to the cold of the hall of memories. I'm in a long, narrow corridor with walls of cracked, sun-bleached adobe. The floor beneath my bare feet is rough, packed dirt, baked hard by an unseen, relentless sun.
There are no fluorescent lights here. The only illumination comes from a series of long, narrow skylights in the ceiling, through which pours a harsh, white, sourceless light. It feels like a desert, an endless, arid expanse trapped indoors.
The silence is different here, too. It's not the empty silence of Floor 2, or the watchful silence of the greenhouse. This is a heavy, suffocating silence, like the air itself is too thick to carry sound.
I grip my shears, my new skill, [Ice Will], a cold, reassuring presence at the back of my mind. I'm not afraid. I'm focused. I'm ready.
I start walking down the corridor. The dirt floor is hot under my feet, the heat seeping into my soles. The walls are featureless, save for the occasional, deep crack. There are no doors, no openings. Just a straight, endless path.
I walk for what feels like an hour. Then two. The corridor doesn't change. The heat doesn't let up. My mouth is dry, my throat parched. I haven't had a drink of water since... since I died.
The thought makes me laugh, a dry, rasping sound that echoes strangely in the oppressive silence. I'm worried about dehydration in the afterlife. It's absurd.
But it doesn't feel absurd. The thirst is real. The heat is real. The dirt beneath my feet is real. This place has a way of making you forget you're dead, of making the struggle for survival feel immediate and vital.
Maybe that's the point.
I keep walking.
I'm starting to feel dizzy, the heat and the endless monotony of the corridor taking their toll. My vision swims slightly. I need to find a way out of here. I need to find water. Or something.
Then I see it.
Ahead of me, in the middle of the corridor, is a door.
It isn't connected to any wall. It just stands there, a solitary, free-standing wooden door in the middle of the baked earth. It's old and weathered, the wood grey and cracked. A simple, black iron handle is set into it.
It's an anomaly. It doesn't belong. Which means it must be the way forward.
I approach it cautiously, my shears held ready. There's no sound, no movement. Just the door, standing silently in the shimmering heat.
I reach out and touch the handle. It's cool to the touch, a stark contrast to the searing air. I hesitate for a moment, then turn it and push the door open.
Beyond the door is not another corridor. It's a small, circular room. The walls are the same sun-bleached adobe, but in the center of the room is a stone well.
A real well. With a wooden roof and a bucket on a frayed rope.
Water.
My throat closes up, a desperate, primal need surging through me. I stumble into the room, my eyes fixed on the bucket. I'm so focused on the promise of water that I don't notice the other thing in the room until it moves.
A figure detaches itself from the shadow by the far wall.
It's tall, lean, and clad in tattered, dark clothing. A long, ragged coat hangs from its shoulders, and a pair of goggles perches on top of its head, pushing back a shock of long, dark green hair. But it's the eyes that make me freeze.
They're red.
Not bloodshot, but a luminous, inhuman shade of crimson. They glow slightly in the dim light of the room.
It's a person. Or, it used to be. Now, it's something else. Something that has adapted to survive in this place. It looks at me, its head tilting in a bird-like, curious gesture. It's holding a long, thin, metal rod in one hand, a makeshift staff.
We stare at each other. The only sound is the faint, dry rustle of the wind through the skylights.
"Hello," it says. Its voice is a low, raspy growl, like stones grinding together. It doesn't sound hostile. Just...curious.
I don't answer. I just tighten my grip on my shears. My new skill, [Ice Will], keeps the fear at bay, but it doesn't make me stupid. This thing is dangerous. I can feel it.
It takes a step forward, its movements fluid and strangely graceful. "You're new." It's not a question. "You still smell like...before."
I don't know what that means, and I don't ask. I'm here for the water. That's all.
I take a step toward the well, my eyes never leaving the creature. It watches me, its red eyes unblinking.
"The water is not free," it says, its voice a low rumble.
I stop, my hand on the edge of the stone well. "What do you want?"
It smiles, revealing a mouth full of sharp, pointed teeth. "A trade."
I look around the small room. There's nothing here but the well, the creature, and me. "I don't have anything to trade."
It points a long, claw-like finger at me. "Yes. You do." Its crimson eyes lock onto mine. "I need a weapon to fight it." It raises the metal rod in its hand. It's not a very good weapon. "You have a better one."
I look down at my pruning shears. They're my only defense. My lifeline.
"I can't give you my weapon," I say, my voice flat and cold.
"Then you can't have the water," it replies, its tone equally flat. There's no malice in it, no threat. Just a statement of fact.
I'm thirsty. So thirsty I can barely think. But I'm not going to be helpless. I won't be a victim again.
I need a different option. A way out of this that doesn't involve disarming myself.
I look at the creature, at its ragged clothes, its strange eyes. It's a survivor, like me. It's adapted to this floor. It knows things I don't.
"What if I help you fight?" I ask, the words coming out of my mouth before I've fully formed the thought. "What if we fight it together?"
It tilts its head again, the gesture almost owl-like. It considers this, its glowing eyes studying me. "Together," it repeats, as if tasting the word. "An...alliance."
"Yes."
It's silent for a long moment, the only sound the dry whisper of the wind. Then it nods, a slow, deliberate gesture. "Yes. An alliance is...acceptable." It lowers its staff. "You will help me. I will give you water."
I don't let my guard down. This could still be a trick. But it's the only chance I have. "What is it?" I ask. "What are we fighting?"
It looks toward the door we both came through, its expression unreadable. "The Silence," it rasps. "It comes when the sun is at its highest. It hunts for those who make noise."
I follow its gaze. The corridor beyond the door is just as empty and silent as it was before.
"It's already silent," I say.
A slow, chilling smile spreads across its face, revealing more of those sharp teeth. "Yes," it whispers. "It is."