When they wake, it is to an abyssal darkness. Their eyes slowly adjust to their nearly pitch-black surroundings, taking in the corrugated steel walls and iron beams. They are lying on a concrete floor, the artificial stone cool beneath them. Dust is suspended in the air, hair-thin beams of light illuminating the motes from where the cracks originate in the steel siding. There are a good ten feet in front of them before the wall opposite to them separates themself and the outside world, and as their eyes adjust, they catch sight of a person. Someone is lying in the corner like a discarded cloth doll. The colors and shapes are indistinct, but they can make out an outstretched hand lying limp above soft, curly hair. The air smells like iron and time.

They get onto their hands and knees from where they are lying, and notice that their nails are long, sharp, and untrimmed, and their white arms are covered in nearly invisible hair. They feel something twist behind them, and they turn. They have a tail, a nearly hairless white whip, and it curls in reaction to their curiosity and stills when they will it to. Fascinating.

They stand, wobble on their legs for a moment as though they are a newborn fawn, and then find their balance. Long coarse black hair hangs from their head in sheets, stringy and shining dully in the light. There is fabric over their body - a smock, some part of their mind distantly supplies - a plain thing that might be white or gray in full light and that looks to be stained with soot or dust or debris of some kind. They pinch the fabric between their fingers. It’s rough, but not so rough as to be uncomfortable against their skin. Not cotton, maybe linen, but certainly not burlap. They release the fabric and then trace a finger down their arm. Their skin is dry and thick, and it’s the whitest thing in the room, their hair being the darkest. They turn their wrist over and find their veins are a near-black violet color. Perhaps it’s just the light, they assure themself, and drop their arms to their side. They then turn back to the person in the room with them and step forward to examine them.

As they step forward, the scent of iron becomes heady and overwhelming. They begin to salivate, and are confused as to why. They look down, crouching over the person, and stumble back immediately, falling onto their ass and jolting their tail painfully. It’s not a person at all. It is a body. There are tears in the flesh, and deep welts and cuts on the body, bruises on its wrists. The beautiful brown skin is torn from the throat like a peel from a fruit, and exposed beneath it is sinew and muscle and blood, so much blood. The head is intact except where it isn’t, a visibly crushed indent in the skull with visible pink organ and flecks of yellow bone. There are bruises on its wrists, as though it lived and struggled and fought against its attacker, and black under its nails. The worst is the rib cage, chest cavity, whatever it is now. The thing that attacked this person broke through its ribs and tore out the flesh. The attacker tore apart the sinew connecting the organs, tore into the organs themselves. They realize with belated horror that the tears aren’t made by a weapon, but rather are massive bites taken by sharp teeth and a powerful jaw.

They feel sick. They feel hungry.

Hey, says a voice in their mind, and they jolt. It’s alright, friend. I’m just resting.

They know with certainty that the body is not resting. They do not know what is happening within the confines of their own mind. They cover their ears with their hands and squeeze their eyes shut, trying to block out the voice.

Hey, no no no, it’s okay, buddy! You’re alright.

They make a terrified buzzing noise in the back of their throat.

Oh, it’s just me. You just looked me over, didn’t you? I can’t hurt you.

They realize that they’ve been pressing their hands against their ears so harshly that it’s causing discomfort, and they slowly release, untensing from their terror-stricken state with a dismayed groan. The body can't possibly belong to this voice, and this noise with no origin disturbs them, causing them to shudder in fear.

There you go, friend, says the voice in their head. There’s no need to be frightened! I’m not going to hurt you.

They open their eyes and are met with the sight of the corpse, the blood slowly seeping towards them, and they scoot further away from it as another wave of nausea crashes through them. They close their eyes again, gritting their teeth.

Oh! Are you upset because of… I understand. I would be upset, too. You don’t like corpses?

They shake their head, slowly adjusting to the voice.

Oh, that’s very sweet of you to say. Monsters are usually very excited by them. You must be very different! You don’t have to look, if you don’t want to.

They turn their head away and slowly open one eye, then the other. They can feel the impression of a smile in the back of their mind, the phantom sensation of one stretching across their own features.

There you go, friend. My name is George.

Their mouth forms the word noiselessly.

That’s right, George. Can you speak?

They make a rasping noise, and then shake their head.

Oh, that’s alright, says George, his thoughts entering their mind like bright sparks behind their eyes. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. They scoot further away from George’s corpse, backing away from it. Do you know where we are, friend?

They look around, swiveling their head to observe as much of the room as they can without standing and turning, their eyes carefully slipping over and away from the body like a wave pouring over a sandbank. They spot a doorway behind them, something constructed from cinder blocks and painted a thick, dull gray. They stare at it for a moment before shaking their head.

Ah, of course. We’re in a maze.

They frown.

Do you know what a maze is?

They nod.

Good. Well, this is one just like any other, except, of course, it’s very dark in this maze. It’s one you’re meant to get lost in, not one you’re meant to find the exit of. They cast their eyes to the entrance of the maze, focusing on the lack of light in it, the indistinct shadows kept within. Normally, I would walk this maze myself, but I’m… not feeling well. I will feel better later, but for now, I need to ask you for a special favor. Their brows furrow as they cock their head, eyes still fixated on the darkness. Could you please walk the maze for me?

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They open their mouth, push air past their lips, but no sound comes out. George seems to understand them anyway. You want to know why? Well, there’s a secret to this maze. If I get to the end, I get what I most desire. But right now, I can’t walk, and even when I can walk I can’t do it for long. And this maze has very tight parts, and dark parts, and changes every time you walk it… but you, on the other hand, are a monster, and monsters know the maze instinctively.

Monster? They mouth the word, and George explains. Oh, I’m so sorry, I never told you. I’m not a monster, but you are. I’m a human. Monsters hunt humans all the time, which is why I… can’t walk right now. But being a monster is a great thing. You never get sick, or hungry, or tired, and you are so fast and strong and powerful. You can walk right through this maze for me easy-peasy. And if you do, and take me with you right to the end, I will get my wishes granted. Isn’t that nice?

They consider it for a moment, their tail swishing back and forth behind them as they do so. George continues. Oh, do you wonder what’s in it for you? They hesitate a moment. The thought had honestly never occurred to them. If you get to the end, I’ll make a wish for you, too. Their eyes widen. You can have whatever you want. Anything in the world. You name it, and you can have it, okay? Since you walked all the way to the end, you deserve it, too. Do you want that?

They swallow thickly, and then nod. Good, says George. Then you can have it. I promise.

They stand, still staring at the entrance. Their legs are wobbling again, but they straighten out with a little patience, and then they stalk forward one step at a time.

At the mouth of the maze, they feel some fear. Cool air breezes past their face and brushes their dark hair against their cheeks, and they can feel it on every exposed inch of their skin. They stare blankly ahead for a few moments, waiting for some kind of sign that they shouldn’t be doing this. They distinctly feel as though they shouldn’t be doing this. Their hands feel colder, now, their limbs feel heavy, and their tail droops behind them, a long J shape at the base of their spine.

It’s okay, soothes the corpse. Friend, I promise I’m with you.

They step past the threshold.

Once they’re inside, everything feels different, electric. They feel like a trained hunting hound about to be set loose into the forest, all lithe muscle and teeth and speed. They do not hesitate once they are inside. Their movements are fluid and natural to them, though they are moving far faster than their legs can account for, like they’re flickering from one place to another. Forward, left, forward, right, forward, right. There is little light left, and the light that is present is entirely without a source, a faint sort of leftover of the same kind of light in the warehouse. They have arrived at a strange place, a tiered shelf of tunnels only tall and wide enough for someone to crawl on their belly through. Rather than be deterred by this, they grab onto the ledge at the top of the three slots and pull themself up in one fluid motion, sliding inside like they were designed for it.

Oh, you’re doing wonderfully, encourages the voice, and they barely notice it. Keep going, friend.

They crawl faster than they walk, and slip out the other side in another fluid movement, like water poured from a glass. They stand and move once more. Forward, left, left, forward, right, up. Another ledge, one that leads to a new level. They pull themself up and keep moving, moving, moving. Forward, right, forward, left, down. They drop from the ledge back down to the concrete floor, then forward through a narrow hall, then back up. Left immediately. Center slot in the wall, crawling, then left again. They get the sense that they’re looping back towards the entrance, but it doesn’t deter them. Forward, right, center slot, forward, left, right, left, up again. Wall, right, right and through a long corridor, lowest slot in the wall, forward then right again. Down, left, up, up. Three floors, they realize, there are three floors to the maze.

You’re doing so well, buddy, says George. Just a little further.

Left, left, right, right, left and center slot, steep drop to the second floor. Forward, right, left bottom slot, right, left, right, down. Forward, left, top slot and a longer crawl, drop down to a wall, turn right there, and a long thin hall, just wide enough for running. Right, left, and George interrupts.

We’re almost at the end of the maze, he says, I can feel it! You’re doing wonderfully.

They do not react except for the slight curl of their tail. Left, climb up to a ledge and go right. Right, right, bottom slot, left, left, up, forward. Right, right, right, left, left, drop down to floor two, and another long hallway forward. Up again. Down again. Left, down, sprint another hallway, right, left, up, left, right, right, up, forward, and they slam into the wall they’re moving so quickly. The only way is right, then another right, left-forward, right, left, finally another center slot, abrupt wall and a left, right, drop down, and completely turn around to head backwards. And then they see it - a clear shot to the exit on their right. And they hesitate.

I know it’s scary, he says, to leave the maze. But if you want to help me, you have to go through the door on the other side.

They make a croaking sound, something like striking the strings of a violin with the bow for the first time since it’s been retrieved from the attic. George seems to understand.

You do want your wish granted, don’t you? He asks, voice soothing.

They shake their head, and then point up before opening their palm and waving it in a circle around their head.

You don’t want your-? Oh, are you referring to me?

They nod.

What do you need, friend? I told you, I can’t walk the maze right now, and if I could I would only slow you down. But if you really need my help, you can wait.

They shake their head, and then huff, their arm falling to their side and their shoulders slumping. Their meaning isn’t coming across with the limited charades they can perform. They open their mouth, cough, double over from the stab of pain in their chest, before taking a deep, shaky breath. The world holds its breath.

“Mnph,” they manage, before coughing again, nearly falling to their knees. “Do I. Need. Take you?” they ask, sitting on the ledge before the drop back to the first floor and exit.

There’s silence in their mind for several moments, and they use the break to imagine the sensation of lifting a limp, warm, bloodied body from the floor, of dragging it through those tunnels and hauling it up those steep faces of concrete. They feel ill at the thought.

It’s a miracle you can speak, says George, not without awe. No, friend, you don’t need to carry me through the exit. I’m already with you. It’s fine.

They sigh, and cough again, now without force. “Injured. Weak. Need my help,” they explain.

… Thank you for offering, he says, but you’re helping me so much already. And I’ll be waiting for you at the other side of the door. They perk up at that, their tail standing to attention instead of lying behind them listlessly. Ah, I should have led with that, shouldn’t I? I’ll be at the other side with you when we go to the next maze.

“Okay,” they say, their voice scratched like glass against sandpaper. “I’ll go.”

They drop down from the ledge easily and walk forward, gazing into the black void in the door frame. Now that they’re staring at it, nothing about it seems quite right. The door frame is made from a cheap composite material and merely printed with wood grain, and it’s painted a sickly amber in the dim light of the warehouse. There is nothing lying behind the darkness of the door frame, no shapes hiding in the darkness or light pouring in. In fact, it seems as though the darkness is pouring out of the frame. If they were afraid of the dark, they may be afraid of this, but as they stare into it, they find it familiar, like a worn blanket or a distant relative. It’s not a warm fee`ling, nor is it a comforting one, but it brings them a sleepy sort of peace.

Are you alright? We need to keep moving, says George, and they nod in response. They touch the door frame. It feels cooler than the rest of the room.

And they step through.