I stand before the plain metal mirror, the smear of my own blood a stark red comma against the grey surface. The ghost of my former self is gone, but the feeling she left behind lingers—a cold, hollow ache in the pit of my stomach. It's not grief. Not anymore. It's something colder. A recognition of a life shed like a snake's skin.
I turn away from the mirror and continue down the corridor of white tiles. The antiseptic smell grows stronger, mixed with the metallic tang of old blood. The walls are streaked with dark, dried stains. The floor is slick with a thin film of grime, and my bare feet make soft, squelching sounds with each step.
I pass a series of doors, all made of the same scuffed, grey metal as the mirror. They have no handles, no windows. Just small, square slots at eye level, like the one on the door to Floor 2. They're all closed.
I try the handle of the nearest door. It's locked. I move to the next one. Locked. They're all locked. This place feels like a prison, a maze of locked cells.
I hear a sound from behind one of the doors. A soft, rhythmic tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap. It's the same sound I heard in the library, the one that led us to the puzzle room.
I swallow, hand clenching.
What was it the stranger said about what happens when that thing stops tapping? I don't want to be here to find out.
I keep moving.
The corridor opens up into a large, tiled room that smells strongly of bleach. The room is filled with rows of porcelain sinks, their faucets rusted and dripping. A long, cracked mirror hangs above them, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights. The floor is covered in a shallow layer of grimy water, and my bare feet are numb with cold.
This is a bathroom. Or, it was. Now it's a flooded, decaying ruin.
I see something in the water. A dark shape, half-hidden by a row of sinks. It's a body, floating face down. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman. I can just see the back of its head, its hair fanned out in the murky water.
I don't go any closer. I don't want to know. I just want to find the way out.
There's a door on the far side of the room. It's a heavy steel door, like the one that led to Floor 2. But this one is different. It's covered in deep scratches, the metal gouged and torn as if something tried to claw its way through.
I approach it slowly, my shears held ready. The scratches are fresh, the edges of the torn metal still sharp. Whatever made them was strong. And desperate.
I push against the door. It's unlocked.
It swings open into a dark, narrow space. The air that comes out is cold, smelling of damp stone and something else... something vaguely sweet, like overripe fruit. The same sweet smell from the greenhouse.
My blood runs cold. I back away from the door, my heart pounding. I'm not going in there. I'm not going back to that place. I barely escaped the first time.
I turn and run, my bare feet splashing through the grimy water. I don't look back. I just run. I can't dare hesitate. Not when I'm surrounded by death I can't see but know is all around me.
I burst out of the bathroom and back into the white-tiled corridor. I don't stop. I sprint down the hall, my lungs burning, the shears a heavy weight in my hand.
I run until my legs give out, collapsing against a wall, gasping for breath. I'm in a different part of the corridor now. The walls are no longer white tile, but the same stained, yellow wallpaper from the beginning. The hum of the fluorescent lights is a familiar, welcome drone.
I don't know how long I lie there, just breathing. But eventually, I push myself up and start walking again. I have to keep moving. I can't stop. I can't let this place take me.
I turn a corner and see a figure standing in the middle of the hallway.
It's a woman. She's wearing a nurse's uniform, the white fabric stained with dirt and blood. She's young, maybe in her early twenties, with a pretty, heart-shaped face and long, blonde hair tied back in a neat ponytail. She's just standing there, perfectly still, staring at the wall.
"Hello?" I call out, my voice echoing in the silence.
She doesn't respond. She doesn't even move. It's like she's a statue.
I approach her slowly, my shears held ready. "Are you okay?"
She turns her head, her movements slow, dazed.
She looks at me, but...not. As if she cant bring herself to look at my face.
"If you wait...the room will be ready." she says, her eyes distant. "You just need to get it clean."
"You...a nurse?" I ask, my hand clenching slightly on the shears.
Her eyes, a pale, watery blue, finally focus on me. They're wide, and there's a vacant, lost look in them. "Yes," she says, her voice a soft, singsong whisper. "A nurse. I have to get the room ready. For the doctor."
She begins walking down the hall.
"Please don't cause a ruckus. We're very busy today." she says, walking away, her steps silent.
I want to say something, but I don't.
I want to ask her which doctor. If it's David. The 'doctor' from the factory. The one who looks like my husband. The one who tortured a boy and called it healing.
But I don't.
I just watch her walk away, her white uniform a stark, ghostly shape against the grimy yellow wallpaper.
And then I follow her.
She leads me down a series of identical hallways, her movements sure, her steps silent. She's not lost. She knows where she's going. She's been here for a long time.
I want to keep a distance, but I also don't want to lose her. She's the only other living thing I've seen on this floor.
She's the best chance I have of figuring out where the exit is on this dangerous floor without getting devoured by something.