"Damn you…
A familiar voice—yet thick with rage.
I froze in place and snapped my head toward the empty spot where the painting had swallowed Adam.
Beside me, Noor and Sam jolted to their feet, their eyes wide as if they had seen a ghost.
What they saw nearly stopped their hearts.
"Fwoosh!!"
The surface of the blank canvas began to ripple and distort like disturbed water… then, violently, it burst open from the center—as if an invisible fist had punched through it from the inside.
"BOOM!!!"
Through the torn opening, Adam's body was hurled out with force, like a projectile shot from a cannon.
"Bam!… Bam!"
He slammed into the old wooden floor and rolled several times before stopping on his back, gasping and groaning in pain.
His clothes were torn, smeared with something dark and sticky that looked like… dried blood.
"Adam!" Noor cried, rushing toward him—but I grabbed her arm quickly.
"Wait, Noor! Don't get close yet!" I said, forcing my voice to stay steady.
What happened to him in there? Is he okay? More importantly… is he still Adam? Or something else wearing his face?
"Ugh… damn it… that hurts…"
Adam struggled to sit up, his face pale as death, his gray eyes filled with irritation.
His messy black hair clung to his sweat-soaked forehead, and a small cut bled above his left eyebrow.
"A child? My ass…" he muttered hoarsely, glaring at the torn painting that had just spat him out—now settling back into nothing more than a lifeless piece of cloth.
"I shouldn't have played the 'gentle father'… damn it."
Then he looked at us, surprise flickering in his eyes—as if he had only just noticed we were there.
"We need to get out of here… now!" he shouted suddenly, forcing himself to stand on trembling legs. "This floor is worse than the last one!"
I didn't fully understand what he meant, but seeing Adam—this usually sarcastic, unsettlingly calm student—this shaken and serious…
My mind kicked into overdrive.
What the hell did he see inside that painting to end up like this? And that angry voice we heard… who was he yelling at? The 'little bitch'… could it have been… the girl from the other painting?
Questions swirled in my head like a storm—but there was no time for answers.
"The elevator," I said, pointing down the corridor. "We're heading there. Adam, can you walk?"
I'll interrogate him inside the elevator… for now, we leave. The missing piece is back.
Adam nodded weakly, leaning against the wall.
"I think…"
I glanced at the painting of the little girl—still crying blood.
It hadn't changed… her hand still pointing toward where Adam's painting had been.
Why is she pointing at his painting?
"No time to think about that now!" I said firmly.
We had to get back to the elevator before something worse happened.
[POV: Adam Lester]
Leo was already moving toward the end of the corridor—where the elevator was supposed to be waiting.
"No time for questions!" he shouted, gesturing for us to follow. "Every second we stay here is another risk!"
He was right. Getting to that damned elevator and escaping this haunted gallery was the priority.
I followed—well, more like staggered and stumbled—down the long, dark corridor.
My body still ached from exhaustion, but the fear of what might happen if I stayed here pushed me forward harder than any pain.
Leo led the way, his good hand constantly scanning every corner and shadow, while his injured one was pressed to his chest. His face was rigid.
Noor and Sam followed closely behind him, occasionally glancing nervously over their shoulders.
And I was at the back, trying to keep up—my entire body screaming in protest.
"Damn it…" The corridor felt much longer than I remembered.
The empty paintings with their distorted reflections slid past us, their twisted expressions seeming to follow our every move.
"Are… are we getting close?" Noor asked between breaths, staring at the still-distant end of the corridor.
"I don't know," Leo replied, his focus unwavering.
So we kept running.
Our ragged breathing and uneven footsteps were the only sounds breaking the suffocating silence.
"Huff… haah…!"
My lungs felt like they were about to burst. My legs could barely carry me.
This is strange, I thought, trying to steady my breathing. We've been moving in this direction for several minutes now. We should've reached the elevator by now.
The corridor…
Just keeps…
Stretching.
Wait.
Could it be…?
A disturbing thought began to take shape in my mind. And in this cursed place—it felt terrifyingly possible.
"Leo!" I shouted, stopping abruptly—almost causing Noor and Sam to crash into me.
"What is it, Lester?" Leo asked impatiently.
"Look… look at that painting," I said, pointing weakly at one on the left wall.
It was the little girl.
Crying blood.
Pointing forward.
"So what?" Leo said. "We've seen it before."
"Yes," I cut in, my voice rising as I caught my breath. "We just passed it… when we started running from the other end of the corridor… didn't we?"
Leo looked at the painting… then at me… then back again.
Confusion. Denial.
Then… realization.
"No… that's not possible," he whispered. "I thought the repetition was just part of this floor's nature…"
"Are we stuck in a loop?"
"Or the corridor itself is manipulating us," I said, cold dread creeping in.
"The more we run toward the elevator… the longer the corridor becomes… the farther it gets. Like we're running on an endless treadmill."
"That's… impossible!" Noor said, her voice trembling.
Loop… or stretching corridor… I thought.
Both are bad.
"Let's try something else," Leo said, determination sharpening his tone.
"Instead of running toward the elevator… let's walk. Slowly. And try going in the opposite direction—for a moment."
Strange idea.
But better than running blindly.
In a place that devours logic for breakfast… maybe a stupid move like going against the flow was exactly what we hadn't tried.
Not a bad idea, I admitted to myself.
At least our injured leader still has two working brain cells… unlike me, still replaying a horror film about a psycho girl who murdered her parents.
I nodded.
Anything was better than this panicked sprint.
We began walking.
Our footsteps sounded disturbingly soft against the old wood, which creaked beneath us like it was about to give way.
The air was cold and heavy—thick with dust, dampness, and decay.
From the walls, our distorted portraits followed us with dead eyes, our twisted faces growing uglier with each step—as if they were mirrors draining our souls drop by drop.
We walked for what felt like an eternity.
In reality—only minutes.
The corridor didn't change.
Still stretching ahead like the throat of a beast.
Then—
Leo stopped.
His body went rigid.
"No… this is just… a bad joke," he rasped.
I followed his gaze.
And my stomach twisted into a cold knot.
There—
On the left wall.
The little girl.
Crying blood.
Pointing forward.
Not similar.
Not another copy.
The same one.
The exact same cursed spot we had just escaped.
Damn it! I screamed internally.
A loop. A damn loop. We're just hamsters in this hellish wheel.
"Impossible…" Noor gasped, barely holding back a scream. "How… how are we back here?!"
Sam let out a strained groan.
Even he was shaken.
Leo, on the other hand, stared at the painting—and the empty frame where mine had been—with deadly focus.
"There's no exit…" he muttered, swaying slightly. "This place… is more complex than I thought."
And then—
As he was about to extinguish the last flicker of hope within us—
Something flashed in my mind.
Not a thought.
A notification.
[What you don't see may be more important than what you do.]
Wait…
Pieces began falling into place.
Lilia… despite everything… had never lied to me.
Images exploded in my head.
So I slowly looked at our distorted portraits.
Leo melting like a candle.
Noor screaming without sound.
Sam cracking like old glass.
And my own reflection…
That smile.
That damn smile.
What was it hiding?
And the little girl…
Why the hell was she crying?
We're not fighting a place.
A cold, sharp realization cut through the fog in my mind.
I looked at Leo… recalling his past.
Then at his melting portrait.
"I get it now," I said calmly—my voice strangely detached, as if someone else was speaking through me.
They turned to me.
Eyes like stray dogs—waiting for either a kick… or a scrap of bread.
"I figured it out."
Leo frowned.
"What do you mean?"
I looked at him—serious.
Then smiled faintly.
"This floor…" I said slowly, "is more playful than I thought."
I paused, glancing at our twisted faces on the walls.
"It hates hypocrisy."
"Lester… have you lost your mind?" Leo snapped, pain sharpening his temper.
Expected.
"Look at your portrait, Leo," I said sharply.
"You're not melting… but you feel like you are, don't you? Like the mask of the 'perfect son' and 'responsible leader' is eating you alive… You're heading straight for burnout."
"W-What…?" he stared at me, stunned.
Noor…
Silent scream.
I turned to her.
"And that silent scream, Noor… what is it you're hiding? What truth are you terrified people might hear?"
Her face flushed red. She looked away. Her hands trembled violently.
I ignored it.
"And those cracks, Sam…"
I looked at him.
"You're more fragile than you pretend to be."
"…" He said nothing.
But his shoulders shook.
"And that reflection…" I said, staring at my empty frame.
"That smile… what a hollow smile."
I exhaled.
"The little girl isn't crying because of us… She's crying because we lie."
"Because we're hypocrites."
"Because we wear masks… even in our graves."
Silence.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
"What we don't see," I whispered, "is our rotten truth."
"So… what now, oh wise philosopher?" Leo said bitterly.
"Should we sit down and sing Kumbaya?"
A tired smile touched my lips.
"Not exactly."
"But… I think I know what I need to do."
"At least… what I need to do first."