Brock is met with a huge door, about three times his size. Looking puzzled, he tries to push it open using his full strength. The door groans under the pressure but barely budges. Brock grits his teeth, sweat forming—not just from the strain, but from the thought of what's inside.
He takes a step back, scanning the massive frame for a handle, a switch—anything. Then he notices faint carvings along the edge, glowing softly with a pale blue light.
"What is this...?" he mutters, reaching out to trace them with his fingers. He can't read it. As soon as he makes contact, the runes flare to life, and the ground begins to rumble. The door creaks louder, then slowly begins to open on its own. A sharp gust of wind bursts from the gap, carrying a sound that sends chills down his spine.
Brock shields his face against the blast of cold wind. It feels unsettling—like ice. He peers through the growing gap between the door and the metal frame. Beyond it, the darkness feels like a living thing—thick, heavy, and impenetrable.
He hesitates. Every instinct screams at him to turn back. But something unseen pulls at him—a strange pressure behind his eyes, a whisper that isn't quite a voice:
Come closer.
He steps through.
The air shifts instantly—dead silence. Even his footsteps are dispersed into the dark stone beneath him. The door creaks and slams shut behind him.
He twists around, horrified. Rubbing his hands on the door to open it back up—no handle. No seams. Just black, dark iron.
Then, a sound—soft, like breathing on his neck… but it's not his.
Brock turns slowly.
Looking forward again, down the hallway, something moves. Not walking—crawling, but with a jaunt.
A flicker of motion in the corner of his eye. He spins—nothing.
The glow from the runes has vanished.
He's alone.
Or… he hopes he is.
A single word echoes faintly through the corridor—not spoken, but felt:
"Leave."
Brock, visibly shaken, gulps loudly. The sound echoes.
He thinks to himself, This can't be real.
"Hello… is someone here?" Brock asks, hoping to hear nothing after.
He's blessed with silence.
He runs—only for a second—then stops. The path disappears. Lights flicker with every step, like the darkness is absorbing them.
The corridor twists. Shifts. Doors appear and vanish in the blink of an eye. Whispers are everywhere. Brock falls to his knees, clenching his ears—too many voices to count. Too many languages and sounds he doesn't understand.
Then—silence.
Brock stops, chest heaving, and stands up.
He's in a wide chamber now—large, with smooth black iron walls that reflect nothing. He's left with only the eerie glow seeping from thin cracks in the floor—cracks shaped like veins.
Looking down, Brock notices his hands are clammy and marked with black veins, as if he's infected.
He turns slowly.
Something is watching him.
Shadows—but they don't look like silhouettes. Tall, twitching things with too-long limbs and eyes like holes. They don't move like anything should. They dash forward, heads jerking left to right, like they can sense him.
Brock holds his breath.
Then—the worst thing: laughter.
Childlike.
Soft.
He whips around.
There, standing just feet away, are three children. Their faces are pale. Eyes pure black, like entrances to their souls. Smiles wide.
One of them tilts her head. Blood runs down from her eyes, slowly.
"Brock," she says in a childlike tone. It's his mother's voice.
He staggers back as more shadows and black-eyed children emerge. His mother. Or something mimicking her.
Her black eyes gleam like obsidian. Her lips are curved in a loving smile, but blood drips steadily down her cheeks, staining her clothes and hands, splashing on the floor.
"Brock, sweetheart," she whispers, arms open, still standing over a bloody puddle.
He takes a step back. "This is a nightmare… shut up! You're not real!"
She looks furious, but still loving and forgiving. She takes a step forward—and all the children do the same, perfectly synchronized.
"You left me," she says, angered. Her voice is deeper now, and it echoes unnaturally.
"You let them take me… It's your fault!!"
He shakes his head, feeling dizzy. Memories claw at the back of his mind—when he walked out.
"I—I didn't—"
The shadows behind the children launch forward. Black veins wrap around his legs.
The children smile wider.
In his mother's perfect voice, he hears:
"Stay with me, baby."
The ground turns to goop beneath him as he's dragged down through the floor.
Brock screams, his body trembling, as he falls—
To Level 2.
Ahead, he sees a long, narrow path that leads to a door with the same glowing runes he used to enter.
To his left, a man sits in a chair, surrounded by more shadows.
"Well I guess..... Lets go."