"It's not Michael. The black guy's still alive," someone muttered in disbelief.

"What the hell is that smell?" Julian was the first to break the silence, his face twisting in disgust. It hit like a physical blow—a pungent mix of metallic tang and the rot of decayed insects, a stench so vile it made the air feel heavy. He glanced at Michael, whose eyes were locked on the fallen masked man.

Following Michael's gaze, Julian's stomach churned. Even for a seasoned doctor, the sight was almost too much. The masked figure had shot himself. But the blood pooling beneath him wasn't red—it was blackened, tar-like, oozing out sluggishly, unlike anything human.

Orion exhaled shakily, his breath trembling as if the weight of the moment had crushed him. The rest of the group slowly rose, brushing off debris as they gathered in a loose circle around the motionless body. No one spoke, their gazes flickering between each other and the grotesque figure on the floor.

"Are we… safe now?" Naima whispered, her voice muffled by the hand covering her nose and mouth.

"Looks like it," Elton replied, though his tone betrayed his uncertainty. His eyes shifted to the mask—a battered, copper-toned artifact trimmed in gold, its ancient design radiating an eerie presence. "But the real question is… who, or what, was he?"

"Who cares?" Michael snapped, stepping forward. "What I care about is who—" He crouched down, reaching for the mask. "—or what—is under this thing."

"Wait!" His hand froze mid-air, his eyes catching something engraved on the barrel of the gun lying beside the masked man. He picked it up, squinting at the etching. "There's writing here. It says, 'I am the Dark Warrior. Ghost World. Up above, exciting.'"

"Up above… exciting?" Orion repeated under his breath, frowning. His eyes darted to the chamber's ceiling, nearly 20 meters high, cloaked in shadow.

"What does that even mean?" Halia muttered, her voice tinged with unease. She broke from the group, her palms skimming the smooth walls in frantic exploration. "There's no way out," she murmured, her breath quickening.

"What now?" Solara asked, her voice quivering as she turned to Thomason, the cop. Her wide eyes pleaded for a solution.

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"Maybe we can call for help," Thomason suggested, pulling his phone from his pocket. His expression darkened as he stared at the screen. "No signal," he muttered grimly. "What about you guys?"

The others scrambled for their phones. The result was the same: no service. A suffocating sense of isolation settled over them.

"Everyone, stay alert," Orion warned suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence. "I think there's something above us."

The group instinctively tilted their heads back. The ceiling loomed impossibly high, an inky void where details melted into darkness. Solara squinted, her voice barely audible. "I think… I think something's moving up there."

A ripple stirred the shadows. Then came the sound—a low, ominous hum, growing louder with each passing second, vibrating through their bones.

"Oh no…" Orion's face went pale as realization struck. "Horseflies."

The ceiling rippled again, this time bursting into motion. A dense, black cloud descended—thousands, maybe millions of horseflies, their iridescent bodies shimmering as they swarmed with terrifying precision.

"Shit. So that's the 'exciting' part," Michael muttered, raising the gun and firing into the swarm. The deafening shot momentarily scattered the flies, but they regrouped within seconds, their formation even tighter.

Naima screamed, kicking off her high heels as she stumbled back.

"Stay calm!" Julian shouted, yanking off his jacket to use as a makeshift swatter. But the flies ignored the group, instead descending on the masked man's corpse. Within moments, his body was engulfed, buried beneath a pulsating black mass.

"They're… eating him," Michael breathed, lowering the gun as he watched in horrified fascination.

"Then they're not interested in us," Thomason said, exhaling in relief.

"Not yet," Orion replied darkly. "Those corpses won't last forever. When they're done…" He glanced at the group, his meaning clear.

The words sent a ripple of panic through the room. Solara pressed herself against the wall, her nails scraping uselessly against the smooth surface.

The buzzing intensified as the swarm consumed the last remnants of the body, leaving behind only a slick, black residue. Then, as if on cue, the flies turned toward the living.

"Oh God," Halia whispered, crossing herself. "They're coming for us next."

Michael stepped forward, his expression hard. He raised the gun, his grip steady. "If we want to survive, we need to give them something else to eat."

The group froze, his words sinking in like stones.

"What are you saying?" Solara's voice cracked.

Michael's gaze swept over them, cold and calculating. "One of us has to die. It's the only way."

"No!" Halia cried, her voice trembling.

Michael ignored her. "Reporter. Doctor. Banker. Fraud. Police Officer. Professor. Blogger." He listed them off like inventory. "We vote. Someone dies. The rest live."

His words ignited chaos. Shouts overlapped, protests echoing off the walls. But deep down, they all knew he was right.

"Fine," Solara said bitterly, her voice cutting through the noise. "We vote."