Chapter Text
Fuck this place. Seriously, just fuck this place. Dying keeps moving lower on the list of the worst things that could happen to me here.
The facility had gone silent again.
No overhead hum of cameras. No buzz from flickering lights. No voice over the intercom.
Only the sound of his own ragged breathing, the soft scuff of shoes on tile, the static fizz from the walkie at his belt.
Miles pressed his back to the wall just outside the security office, peering around the corner into the corridor. Dim emergency lights cast a red hue across the floor, and head, one of the exit signs blinked weakly—just like she said it would.
He started moving.
His body protested with every step. His ribs ached from the fall, shoulder tender from where it had hit the edge of a filing cabinet. But the adrenaline kept him upright. That—and the promise of someone else alive in this nightmare.
Someone who wouldn’t try to kill him or carve him open.
Miles followed the blinking exit signs, winding through abandoned halls. The flickering red glow threw his own shadow against the walls, monstrous and shaky. Occasionally, he’d stop—lift his camcorder, record signs of blood, paperwork, strange drawings painted onto walls in feces and bile. This place was more than a psychiatric facility. It was a crucible.
Eventually, the path narrowed. A side door marked BLOCK C — PRISON WING was slightly ajar. The light above it was out. No camera. No sound. Just black beyond the doorframe.
He swallowed, hesitating for a second.
“This is where she led you,” he assured himself shakily. “This is the way.”
The door creaked open when he nudged it with his foot. He raised the camcorder, switching it to night vision. Immediately, the green hue painted bars, concrete, and shadows—deep shadows that twitched when he moved. His imagination, he tried to tell himself.
The air in the prison was colder. Staler. He moved through it like a ghost, each breath visible in front of him.
Low voices echoed down the corridor. Disquietingly calm.
He froze immediately.
“Take his tongue and liver,” one said—deep, serene, like he was talking about what to pick up from the store.
“No,” the other replied. “Father Martin said not yet.”
Miles swallowed and pressed himself into the inky black shadows between a wall and a column.
He dared to peek.
Two men. Same build. Same faces. They stood down the corridor, near a busted cell door. Naked, pallid, identical. They moved slowly, lazily, like they had all the time in the world and every intention to enjoy it. Their disposition was a rigid dichotomy between their words. Serenity versus violence.
“Still,” the first said, “he’s right here. It wouldn’t take much.”
“No,” the other repeated, a slow grin stretching his cracked lips. “Let’s wait. He’ll come to us when the time is right.”
They turned and vanished around the corner like wraiths, barefoot steps silent against the concrete floor.
Miles didn’t move until he was sure they were completely gone.
Even then, he waited a moment longer, forcing his breath to slow. His hands were shaking. He flexed them around the camcorder.
Not yet, they’d said. Not yet.
His feet barely made a sound as he moved again, eyes scanning for movement, shadows, anything.
At the far end of the prison wing, the hallway turned sharply—exposed pipework, crumbled brick, and a faded sign above reading EAST MAINTENANCE CORRIDOR. One emergency light flickered in and out of existence nearby, casting long, erratic shadows on the floor.
Without hesitating, Miles glanced over his shoulder before ducking through the threshold and disappearing into the corridor beyond—swallowed by the dark.
Your flashlight was dying.
You smack it twice against the palm of your hand as you creep through the narrow hallway, the weak beam flickering like it was barely clinging to life. You felt the same way—like something frayed at the edges, held together with scraps of adrenaline and bitter resolve.
But you kept moving. You had to.
After Father Martin pulled the main power, you’d bolted from the security room, clutching the walkie and whispering directions until your voice was ragged. You hadn’t heard from Camcorder since he entered the prison wing. The silence gnawed at you.
God, please don’t be dead.
You stuck to the walls, moving low, quiet. Every twist in the corridor was a gamble. The cameras were all dead now—your eyes, your advantage, stripped away. You were blind again, like you’d been when they left you for dead.
You listened more than you looked, not trusting your eyes. Listened for the dragging sound of heavy chains, the pant of hot breath, the telltale rasp of skin against concrete.
And then—there it was.
A deep, gurgling inhale. Wet and animalistic.
Shit.
You flatten yourself against a rusted filing cabinet, breath caught in your throat.
Heavy footfalls. A sound like labored breathing forced through broken lungs.
You didn’t need to see him. You knew. You knew every note of that sound.
Your variant stalker.
He’d found you.
You duck into a storage room, silently pulling the door closed. You turn off your flashlight entirely, standing in pitch black, heart thundering in your chest. You held your breath, counting the seconds as the sound grew nearer.
Then—as quickly as it had come—it passed.
You waited another thirty seconds—counted them all—before you cracked the door open, slid out, and kept moving.
It took another two halls before you realized you couldn’t go the way you planned. Chris Walker’s trail was fresh—ripped doors, blood smears, broken glass.
Reroute. You’ve done it before.
You didn’t think. Just moved. Your body knew these corridors better than your mind now. They were muscle memory stitched together with survival instinct
You kept the flashlight low to the ground, sweeping only when necessary. The batteries were giving out, flickering like a heartbeat.
Eventually, you found the corridor.
EAST MAINTENANCE.
The air changed here. More damp. Metallic. The basement wasn’t far.
You picked up the pace, rounding the corner toward the old access door—and slammed hard into something warm and solid.
Your breath caught as you staggered back, flashlight wobbling wildly across the walls.
A man.
Not a variant. Not a hallucination.
Him.
He looked just as startled—wide eyes, cuts fresh on his cheek, holding that damned camcorder like it was a weapon. He hadn’t expected you either.
You stared at each other for a long moment. Just breathing.
“You’re real,” you whisper, almost laughing. “Holy shit—you’re actually real.”
The camcorder in his hand lowered, just slightly. His voice was rough from disuse, barely above a murmur.
“You’re the one on the intercom,” he said, hoarse but steady. “The guide.”
You nod, heart still hammering. “I didn’t think I’d literally run into you.”
Miles let out a quiet breath—part disbelief, part exhaustion. “Didn’t think anyone normal was still alive.”
“Surprise,” you respond, breathless. “Not dead yet.”
He huffed something that might have been a laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always make a habit of dragging strangers out of hell?”
“Only the ones who look like they might make it.”
His mouth quirked at that—just slightly. “Lucky me.”
Without another word, you step past him toward the old steel door and reach for the latch. A rusted staircase disappeared into the black below.
The backup generator waited in the dark. You spare a glance at each other before slowly making your way down.