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The walls shift when you're not looking. The floor creaks, too, but only in that way you hear when you're alone and trying not to think about being alone. You have to keep moving, though. That's the rule here.
"Here" is still undefined.
Left turn. Corridor. Longer than you expected. You check your pulse: 83 BPM. Higher than normal, but that's expected now. Ever since it started following you. You never see it— don't look behind you —but you feel it in the air, that electric humming like a television left on mute.
You notice the wall. A message scrawled in pale, red ink. It's fading, but you make it out:
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> DO NOT TRUST WHAT YOU HEAR
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But then, in the bottom right corner of your vision—no, that can't be right. Asterisks? Numbers. It's as if the very text itself is lying.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
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*cf. p. 12
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> The sound of nothing is worse than the presence of something.
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Right turn. Wall. Door.
It wasn't there before. But you touch it because you have no other choice. There's a tremor in your hand, which you try to suppress, but the doorknob feels cold. Too cold. Your pulse jumps to 95 BPM.
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> The labyrinth plays with time. Hours are minutes, and minutes, hours. But you already know this.
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Somewhere, a ticking. Faint. Like a pocket watch about to break. You open the door anyway. Inside, another corridor.
You walk.
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*cf. p. 83
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> The corridors shift not when you're looking, but when you think you aren't.
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More footsteps, but they aren't yours. Faster, heavier, always around the next corner. Your breathing quickens. You hear your heart: 100 BPM. Faster now. Louder. Each thump, a new echo in the endless space around you.
Then the walls breathe too. The cracks you didn't notice earlier begin to widen, revealing something dark, pulsating inside them. Is it moving? Or are you?
The ink on the walls starts to shift again. New letters form as you watch:
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> STOP RUNNING
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*cf. Appendix: p. 157
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> The centre is not where you think it is.
> It never was.
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Another door. Smaller. It's to your left now, but no doorknob this time. You hear a sound, faint again, like wind but colder, closer. Like it's breathing. You don't trust it. But your pulse says 110 BPM and you know you have to choose.
Left? Or the path ahead?
You place your hand on the door. It opens for you, silently, a whispering invitation. The room inside is darker than anything you've seen, impossibly black. Your skin crawls, but your hand reaches out anyway. Fingers touch something soft.
Breathing.
Is it yours?