Vincent’s footsteps echoed faintly in the sterile hallway as he mulled over everything that had happened since this nightmare began. His mind raced with fragmented thoughts, piecing together inconsistencies, questions, and an unsettling truth: he wasn’t reacting like he should. He wasn’t panicking, wasn’t spiraling into despair the way he might have expected if this were real life. Instead, he was disturbingly calm, his emotions muted as though something, or someone, were pulling strings in the background.
The realization made his skin crawl.
He glanced at the boy walking silently beside him, his small figure a stark contrast to the oppressive atmosphere of the corridor. The child’s presence was grounding, yet also unnerving, a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. Vincent’s mind circled back to his own strange detachment. Shouldn’t he be more… human? Shouldn’t his nerves be fraying at the edges, his breath hitching with every step deeper into this maze?
"This isn''t me."
The thought hit him like a cold slap. This calmness, this eerie clarity, it wasn’t natural. It felt distant, artificial, like a layer of insulation between him and the reality he was trapped in. And then there were the whispers, weaving through his thoughts like poisonous vines, urging him to save the boy, to step into a role he never asked for. Be a hero. The phrase curled in the back of his mind, persistent and cloying, and he hated it.
Vincent reached over his shoulder, pulling the small radio from the strap of his backpack. It was an old, cheap thing he’d picked up a few days before everything spiraled into chaos. A preparation, he’d told himself at the time. Back then, he’d treated the countdown messages as a joke, a gimmick to hype up some obscure ARG or marketing stunt. But some part of him had believed the warnings, enough to buy supplies, tools, extra batteries, the radio.
The radio had become an odd comfort. He’d spent days listening to it before all this, letting its quiet static fill the background as the countdown ticked away. Something about the sound had a strange, meditative quality, like white noise lulling his mind into clarity. Now, with the whispers creeping into his head, it seemed more necessary than ever.
He flicked it on, twisting the volume knob just enough for the faint hum of static to fill the air. The noise was soft, barely audible, but it cut through the whispers like a knife. The voices faded into the background, still there but muffled, less invasive. He let out a slow breath, his grip on the crowbar loosening slightly.
The boy looked up at him, curious. “What’s that for?”
“Just… something to clear my head,” Vincent muttered, not meeting the boy’s gaze. He didn’t need to explain himself to a child, especially not this child.
The static seemed to anchor him, pulling his thoughts into sharper focus. He remembered the games he’d played, Silent Hill, Amnesia, the ones that thrived on atmosphere and subtle terror. The radio had been a deliberate choice, a nod to those experiences and a small comfort against the uncertainty of what the countdown might bring.
He hadn’t expected it to feel this necessary.
As they walked, Vincent’s mind churned with questions he’d ignored earlier, ones the group hadn’t bothered to ask. Why weren’t they more panicked? Why hadn’t they questioned their sudden displacement? Why hadn’t anyone demanded answers about how they got here? Instead, they’d fallen into a pattern, arguing, making quick decisions, and moving forward like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Even Vincent wasn’t immune. He’d spent more time analyzing the situation than questioning the bigger picture.
"Why?"
The word hung in his mind, heavy and insistent. The entity he’d encountered in death, if death was even the right word, flashed through his thoughts. A vast, incomprehensible presence that had regarded him with hunger and delight. He tried to focus on it, to dissect the memory, but it slipped away like water through his fingers. The harder he grasped for it, the more distant it became, until the thought vanished entirely.
Vincent shivered. Something was guiding him, shaping his thoughts, blurring the edges of his awareness. It wasn’t just the whispers; it was something bigger, something he couldn’t fully grasp. He clenched his jaw, forcing his focus back to the present, to the static in his ears, to the weight of the crowbar in his hand. These were tangible, real, grounding.
He glanced at the boy again, watching as the child trudged silently beside him. The kid seemed so ordinary, so unremarkable, yet Vincent couldn’t shake the sense that something about him didn’t add up. But he couldn’t let that suspicion control him, not yet. There were too many unknowns, and the boy might still be his only anchor in this twisted game.
The whispers crept back, faint but persistent, pushing against the edge of his consciousness. "Protect him." "Save him." "You’re a hero."
Vincent’s grip tightened on the radio, the static crackling faintly in response. He wasn’t going to play their game. Not by their rules. Not again.
“You okay?” the boy asked, his voice soft but tinged with worry.
Vincent forced a thin smile, nodding. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
The boy nodded, satisfied, and fell silent again. Vincent watched him for a moment longer before returning his gaze to the corridor ahead. The radio’s static buzzed in his ears, steady and grounding, a thin barrier between him and whatever was trying to manipulate him. He didn’t know how long it would last, but for now, it was enough.
He’d keep moving, keep questioning, and keep listening to the static. It was the only thing he trusted.
Vincent’s fingers tightened around the crowbar as the hurried footsteps grew louder behind him. He didn’t turn immediately, keeping his eyes fixed ahead down the corridor. The static from the radio strapped to his backpack buzzed faintly, grounding him, a steady hum against the growing tension in his chest.
“Backpack!” a voice shouted from behind, sharp and tinged with desperation.
He froze. His grip on the crowbar turned his knuckles white as he slowly pivoted, keeping the boy at his side and behind him. The pink-haired girl came into view, stumbling slightly as she rounded the corner. Her clothes were spattered with crimson streaks, the vibrant color stark against the sterile whites and grays of the hospital corridor. Her chest heaved, her eyes wild and panicked as they locked onto him.
“Why the hell did you run off?” she demanded, her voice breaking under the strain of whatever she’d just been through. “There were more of us back there! You didn’t need to run. You have a weapon, for God’s sake!”
Vincent said nothing, his stance shifting subtly as he adjusted his grip on the crowbar. His gaze flicked down to her hands. She was clutching something, a piece of broken metal, maybe part of a bedframe or a discarded medical tool. Whatever it was, it was jagged, crude, and streaked with blood.
His stomach twisted. He didn’t know whether the blood was hers, the nurse’s, or someone else’s. He didn’t ask.
The girl noticed the shift in his stance, the way his body coiled as if ready to strike. Her eyes darted to the crowbar in his hands, and something flickered across her face, annoyance, desperation, maybe even fear. She took a hesitant step forward, and he immediately took one back.
“Relax,” she said, holding up her free hand as if to placate him. “I’m not here to fight you. I just-” Her voice cracked, and she took a shaky breath. “I just don’t want to be alone, okay? You’re the only one left I’ve seen, and-” She stopped, her gaze flicking briefly to the boy behind him. Her brow furrowed. “Where the hell did you find a kid?”
Vincent didn’t answer. He shifted his weight, keeping the crowbar raised slightly as his eyes stayed on her weapon. The jagged piece of metal dripped faintly, leaving small, dark droplets on the floor. He didn’t trust her, not one bit.
She took another step forward, her movements deliberate but cautious, her free hand still raised in a gesture of truce. “Come on, Backpack,” she said, her tone wavering between frustration and pleading. “We’re not going to survive this crap on our own. You know that. You’ve got a weapon, I’ve got a weapon-” Her voice hitched slightly. “We can watch each other’s backs.”
His grip on the crowbar didn’t falter. “You’ve got blood on yours.”
Her expression twisted briefly, like she was about to snap at him, but she quickly masked it with a brittle smile. “Yeah, no shit. That thing, the nurse, came at us. People panicked. I did what I had to do. You would’ve done the same.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed. “Would I?”
The pink-haired girl’s hand tightened slightly on her makeshift weapon, her composure cracking just enough for him to notice. “Look,” she said, her voice growing sharper, “I don’t care what you think about me. I’m not here to hurt you, okay? We’re all just trying to survive. If you think I’m gonna attack you, you’re wrong.”
“And yet,” Vincent said evenly, “you’re holding a bloody weapon and creeping closer.”
She stopped in her tracks, a flash of something dark crossing her face. “I’m not creeping closer. I’m trying to talk to you. Jesus, Backpack, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“Wrong with me?” Vincent’s voice was low, almost too calm. “What’s wrong with you? You’re running around with blood on your hands, yelling at me for leaving, and acting like we’re best friends all of a sudden. You think I’m stupid?”
Her mouth opened to retort, but she hesitated, her gaze flicking to the crowbar again. “I’m not… Look, I just need to stay with someone who knows what they’re doing, alright?” she finally said, her voice softening. “You seem like you have a plan. I just want to get out of here.”
Vincent didn’t lower the crowbar. “You followed me for a reason,” he said, his tone flat. “What was it? Because I don’t think you’re looking for a buddy.”
Her face tightened, the desperation in her expression hardening into something more guarded. “Fine,” she said after a moment, her voice clipped. “You don’t trust me. I get it. But I’m not walking away. If you want to hit me with that thing, go ahead. Otherwise, let’s stop wasting time and figure out how to get the hell out of here.”
Vincent’s mind raced, weighing his options. He didn’t trust her, couldn’t trust her, but she wasn’t backing down. She had her reasons, whatever they were, and he wasn’t about to turn his back on her. Not with that weapon in her hand and that look in her eye.
“Stay where I can see you,” he said finally, his voice like steel. “And don’t try anything.”
She raised her eyebrows, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “Oh, sure. Because I’d be stupid enough to mess with the guy holding a crowbar.”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he turned slightly, positioning himself so he could keep both her and the boy in his line of sight. The static from the radio buzzed softly, a faint reminder of the uneasy calm he was trying to maintain.
Vincent’s sigh was barely audible over the faint hum of the static on his radio, but it carried the weight of his growing unease. The corridor stretched endlessly ahead, its sterile walls closing in like the jaws of a trap. The faint flicker of the overhead lights added to the oppressive atmosphere, casting shifting shadows that felt alive.
Then, from behind them, another scream tore through the silence, sharp and jagged. The sound crawled into his chest like a cold hand gripping his heart. It was closer this time, more urgent. Whoever was left back there was either running for their life or had just lost it.
“Move,” Vincent muttered, the word sharp and clipped. He tightened his grip on the boy’s hand and shot a glance at the pink-haired girl. Her face was pale, her weapon gripped tightly in her blood-slicked hand. For all her bravado earlier, the scream had shaken her. Without a word, all three of them began moving faster, their steps echoing ominously in the hallway.
The air felt heavier now, oppressive, as if the corridor itself was bearing down on them. Vincent’s eyes flicked from one shadow to the next, his Sixth Sense buzzing faintly in the back of his skull. The static on his radio offered little comfort, a distant hum that couldn’t drown out the growing tension pressing in on him.
Then he saw it.
To the right, a door stood slightly ajar, a bright, almost unnatural light spilling out into the hallway. Unlike the dim, sickly glow of the other lights, this one was steady, its intensity almost too much for the drab, oppressive corridor. It stood out like a beacon, its light cutting through the shadows that seemed to shun it, retreating to the edges of the walls.
Vincent slowed, his steps faltering as he stared at the door. Something about it pulled at him, not physically, but instinctually, as though every fiber of his being knew that this was where they needed to go. Or, perhaps, where the game wanted them to go.
“What the hell?” the pink-haired girl muttered, noticing his hesitation. She took a few more steps ahead of him before she turned sharply, her eyes narrowing. “Why are you stopping?”This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Vincent didn’t answer immediately. His eyes remained locked on the door, the bright light spilling from within casting stark lines across the sterile floor. It wasn’t right. It was too deliberate, too perfectly out of place in this twisted maze.
“Vincent?” the boy whispered, his small voice trembling with fear.
Vincent felt his chest tighten. He hadn’t given the boy his name. He knew that. But this wasn’t the time to address that slip. Not yet.
The pink-haired girl, oblivious to his inner turmoil, scoffed and turned back to him, gesturing impatiently. “You’re seriously stopping here? Are you kidding me? We don’t have time for-”
Her words cut off as Vincent abruptly raised his hand, signaling her to stop. She took a step forward, her irritation flaring, but before she could say anything, he turned to her, his expression sharp and unyielding.
“Stay back,” he said, his voice low but firm.
She faltered, her annoyance melting into uncertainty. “What are you-”
“Just stay back,” he repeated, his gaze darting to the door. The light seemed to pulse faintly now, as if it were alive, responding to their presence. It wasn’t warm or inviting. It was cold, clinical, and far too calculated.
The girl took an uneasy step back, glancing nervously between Vincent and the door. “Fine,” she muttered. “But if this is some kind of trap, it’s on you.”
Vincent didn’t respond. His focus was entirely on the door. The boy clung to his side, his small hand trembling in Vincent’s grasp. The faint whispers from earlier, the ones that had urged him to save the boy, were quieter now, lurking at the edges of his thoughts like a predator waiting for its moment to strike. He ignored them, or tried to, as he took a cautious step forward.
The door didn’t move. The light didn’t change. But the oppressive silence grew thicker, wrapping around them like a smothering blanket.
His Sixth Sense buzzed faintly, but it was disjointed, uncertain, as if it couldn’t decide whether this was danger or simply inevitability. He took another step, and the static on his radio grew louder, crackling faintly as he neared the doorway.
“Vincent…” the boy whispered again, his voice a fragile thread that barely carried.
“I know,” Vincent muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. He didn’t look back at the boy or the girl. His focus was entirely on the light, on the doorway, on the unknowable presence that seemed to pulse from within. It wasn’t right. None of this was right.
And yet, he couldn’t turn away.
The pink-haired girl shifted behind him, her footsteps scraping faintly against the tile. “This is insane,” she hissed. “Whatever’s in there, it’s not safe.”
Vincent finally turned to her, his expression hard. “Nothing here is safe,” he said evenly. “But if we stay out here, we’re sitting ducks.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but another scream echoed faintly from the depths of the corridor behind them. This one was shorter, sharper, and it cut off abruptly, leaving only the oppressive silence in its wake.
The girl swallowed hard, her grip tightening on her weapon. “Fine,” she said, her voice quieter now. “But if this gets us killed, I’m blaming you.”
Vincent didn’t reply. He turned back to the door, his fingers flexing around the crowbar. The light pulsed again, a cold, rhythmic beat that seemed to resonate in his chest. It was waiting for them. Whatever was in there, it was waiting.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, the boy still clinging to his side. The static from the radio crackled louder now, an almost mocking counterpoint to the suffocating tension that filled the air.
He reached the door, the light spilling over him and casting long shadows behind him. For a brief moment, he hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the pink-haired girl’s eyes boring into him, her unease palpable. The boy clutched his hand tighter, his small fingers digging into Vincent’s palm.
And then, with one final breath, Vincent pushed the door open.
The air in the room seemed to congeal around Vincent as he stepped inside, thick and oppressive, like walking into a space that didn’t want them there. The room was a surgical theater, with cold, sterile walls that gleamed faintly under the fluorescent lights. A faint hum filled the air, a sound that felt too low to be heard but too persistent to ignore. It burrowed into his ears like a distant static, leaving him tense and uneasy.
His gaze was immediately drawn upward, to the observation windows overlooking the surgical area. Rows of mannequins sat there, their faceless heads tilted downward as if watching intently. They weren’t posed with curiosity or engagement, though. They looked like bored spectators at a zoo exhibit, waiting for something to happen. It was their stillness, too calculated, too expectant, that set Vincent’s nerves on edge.
He forced himself to glance away, his eyes falling to the operating table in the center of the room. The stark, white sheet draped over it was eerily pristine, untouched by the grime and decay that clung to the rest of this place. It felt out of place, like it had been carefully curated to contrast with the faint rust stains that streaked the tile floor around it.
There was a figure standing near the table, its presence commanding despite its silence. A man, or what used to be a man. His face was a grotesque mockery of humanity, stitched together like a patchwork quilt, with pieces that didn’t quite fit. His cheeks sagged, the loose threads threatening to unravel and let his features slide away entirely. One of his eyes bulged slightly, while the other sat deep in its socket, mismatched and wrong. He stood unnaturally still, his posture rigid, as though he were a mannequin too.
Vincent’s breath hitched as his eyes flicked back to the observation windows. He could have sworn the mannequins had shifted. Just slightly, an arm raised here, a head tilted there. But when he looked directly at them, they were as still as statues.
“Backpack,” the pink-haired girl hissed behind him, breaking the silence. She hadn’t moved far from the door, her eyes darting nervously between the mannequins and the stitched man. Her knuckles were white as they gripped her weapon. “What is this? Why the hell did we come in here?”
Vincent clenched his jaw, refusing to rise to the bait. She’d called him that nickname since the start, despite the boy using his name earlier. It didn’t make sense, and it ticked at the back of his mind like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Was she ignoring it on purpose, or was she like the others, unable to acknowledge certain things? He didn’t answer her, instead taking another tentative step forward.
The boy stayed close to him, his small hand gripping the hem of Vincent’s jacket. “Is this… safe?” he asked softly, his voice trembling.
Vincent’s Sixth Sense buzzed faintly at the edges of his awareness. It wasn’t a full warning, but a soft, persistent hum, like an animal sensing a distant predator. “No,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s not.”
He glanced at the stitched man again, his unease growing as he noticed the faint movement in the figure’s chest, an unsettling, jerky rise and fall, like the mechanics of breathing were unfamiliar to it. The man, or thing, didn’t look directly at them, but there was an awareness in its posture, a tension that made Vincent feel like they were being scrutinized.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught another flicker of movement from the observation windows. This time, he didn’t look away immediately. He let his gaze linger on the mannequins, trying to catch them in the act. His heart thudded in his chest as he realized their heads had tilted slightly further forward, as if leaning in for a closer look.
“You seeing this?” the pink-haired girl whispered harshly, following his gaze. “They’re moving. Those things up there, they’re moving!”
Vincent nodded slowly, his grip tightening on the crowbar. “Don’t look away,” he said, his voice low and measured. “Whatever you do, don’t take your eyes off them.”
The girl let out a shaky laugh, her bravado cracking. “Great. Just great. First the creepy nurse, now this. Are we gonna deal with every horror trope before this nightmare’s over?”
Vincent ignored her, his focus locked on the mannequins. Every time his eyes drifted to something else, a shadow in the corner, the stitched man near the table, they seemed to shift slightly. Not enough to catch in the act, but enough to make him feel like they were closing in, one imperceptible step at a time.
His mind raced as he tried to piece together the rules. The stitched man hadn’t moved yet. The mannequins weren’t outright hostile, but they were watching, waiting. For what? The table, the pristine sheet, the light that had drawn them in, it was all too deliberate, too staged. This room was a trap, but the trigger wasn’t clear.
“Vincent…” the boy whispered again, his voice shaking.
Vincent’s heart clenched at the sound. He hadn’t given the boy his name, but now wasn’t the time to unpack that. “Stay close,” he said instead, his tone firmer than before.
The pink-haired girl took a hesitant step forward, her weapon trembling in her grip. “What about him?” she asked, jerking her chin toward the stitched man. “He’s just standing there. Is he even alive?”
Vincent’s gaze flicked to the figure again. “Alive might not be the right word,” he said grimly.
The pink-haired girl let out a frustrated groan. “You’ve got a weapon. Do something!”
“Do what?” Vincent snapped, his voice sharp. “Rush him and hope for the best? That’s how you die in places like this.”
Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he thought she might argue. But another faint flicker of movement from the mannequins silenced her. They were leaning further now, their headless gazes fixed on the room below.
Vincent swallowed hard, the static from his radio crackling faintly in his ears. “This isn’t about him,” he said quietly, gesturing to the stitched man. “It’s about us. About what we do.”
The girl’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
Vincent didn’t answer immediately. His mind was already turning, picking apart the scene like a puzzle. The mannequins weren’t attacking. The stitched man wasn’t moving. But the room was a pressure cooker, pushing them toward… something. A mistake. A choice.
Or a sacrifice.
Vincent tightened his grip on the crowbar and took another step forward. “Stay behind me,” he said, his voice steady despite the cold knot of fear twisting in his stomach. “And don’t touch anything.”
The pink-haired girl didn’t argue this time. She stayed where she was, her eyes darting nervously between the mannequins and the stitched man. The boy pressed closer to Vincent, his small frame trembling.
The air seemed to grow thicker with each step they took, a suffocating weight pressing against their lungs. It wasn’t just the cold, sterile atmosphere of the surgical room, it was something more, something oppressive that seeped into their skin and coiled tightly around their chests. Each breath felt labored, as though the act of inhaling and exhaling was a conscious effort.
Vincent’s grip on the crowbar tightened as they approached the table at the room''s center. His footsteps echoed faintly on the tile, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the dense silence that filled the room. The sheet draped over the table stood out starkly against the grime and decay of the space, pristine and unnaturally clean. Beneath it, a lump protruded, vague in its shape yet unmistakably humanoid.
They stopped at the edge of the table, the weight of the moment pressing down on them. Time itself seemed to stretch, slowing to a crawl as they stared at the covered figure. The mannequins above loomed like silent spectators, their faceless heads tilted downward in unison, expectant. Watching. Waiting.
Vincent’s gaze flicked to the pink-haired girl. She was trembling, her weapon clutched tightly in her hands as she scanned the rows of mannequins, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. Her bravado from earlier was gone, replaced by a raw, palpable fear that she couldn’t hide.
“They’re still watching,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“Let them,” Vincent muttered. His eyes didn’t leave the figure standing near the table, the doctor. Or at least, that’s what Vincent had decided to call it. The patchwork man hadn’t moved, but the unnatural precision of its breathing shadowed everything else. It wasn’t the shallow, instinctive rhythm of a human breath; it was deliberate, too measured, like a predator holding itself still so as not to scare off its prey.
Vincent’s Sixth Sense hummed faintly in the back of his mind, a low vibration that didn’t give him answers but kept him on edge. His instincts screamed that they were being observed, assessed, judged, but for what purpose, he couldn’t say.
“What’s under there?” the pink-haired girl asked, her voice quivering as she gestured toward the sheet. Her question broke the stillness of the moment, the words hanging in the air like an unspoken challenge.
Vincent didn’t answer. His knuckles whitened as he shifted his grip on the crowbar. He could feel the boy’s small hand gripping his jacket, trembling with an unspoken fear that mirrored his own. The lump beneath the sheet was just a shape, and yet it felt alive, as though it were pulsing with a quiet malevolence.
The mannequins shifted again. This time, Vincent caught it, a faint, collective motion that sent a shiver racing up his spine. Their faceless heads tilted slightly further forward, their collective focus intensifying. The rows of them, their inhuman stillness and synchronized movements, bore down on him like an unrelenting tide of dread.
“Whatever it is, we’re not just walking away from it,” he said finally, his voice low and steady. He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the pristine sheet. The fabric felt cold under his touch, almost damp, and the sensation made his stomach twist.
The doctor’s shadow flickered, just slightly. Vincent’s gaze darted toward the patchwork figure, but it remained still, its mismatched face tilted downward as though in solemn observation. Its chest continued to rise and fall with mechanical precision, the sound of its labored breathing filling the room like the ticking of a clock.
“I don’t like this,” the pink-haired girl said, taking a half-step back. “This feels wrong. We shouldn’t be here.”
“Too late for that,” Vincent’s hands gripped the sheet tightly, the fabric cooler than it should have been, with a dampness that clung to his skin as if it were alive. He forced himself to breathe, but each inhale felt like pulling in air too thick to pass through his throat. The pink-haired girl muttered something behind him, her words a muddled buzz, lost under the deafening thrum of his own pulse in his ears.
His fingers hesitated, his knuckles whitening as a chilling thought flared in his mind: What’s under here might not belong to this world. The room seemed to lean in closer, as if holding its breath, waiting for him to act.
The air seemed to hold its breath with him. Even the faint hum of the fluorescent lights above seemed to dim, as though the room itself had gone still in anticipation. Every fiber of Vincent’s being screamed at him not to pull the sheet back, to turn and run, to leave this cursed place behind.
But he didn’t.
He yanked the sheet back in one sharp motion, the sound startlingly loud, shattering the oppressive silence. It echoed like a crack of thunder, unnaturally amplified by the still air.
The sheet resisted for a split second, like pulling something glued to the surface, before it came free. His body tensed, bracing for the grotesque, the macabre, the unimaginable.
Underneath lay—
Nothing.
For a moment, Vincent’s brain couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. The absence hit harder than anything he’d braced himself for, a hollow, suffocating void that seemed to mock his fear. For a heartbeat, he felt relief, a fleeting thought that the horror hadn’t yet revealed itself. But his gut twisted, and his Sixth Sense buzzed faintly, warning him that the absence itself was the trap.
“What the hell?” the pink-haired girl breathed, her voice trembling as she took an instinctive step back. The jagged weapon in her hand dipped slightly, her grip loosening as though the emptiness on the table had stolen the fight from her.
Above, the mannequins shifted again. This time, Vincent heard it, a faint, grating scrape, like chairs being dragged across tile or fabric brushing against itself in eerie synchronicity. The sound crawled under his skin, sending a shiver rippling down his spine. He looked up sharply, his breath hitching as he caught the faintest hint of movement from the corner of his eye.
They were leaning forward now, their faceless heads tilted at sharper angles, their attention narrowing like predators honing in on prey. Vincent’s chest tightened, his grip on the crowbar turning rigid.
They were leaning forward now, every single one of them. Their featureless heads loomed over the edge of the observation windows, their faceless gazes fixed on the empty table below. It wasn’t just watching anymore. It was anticipation, hunger, malice.
The doctor moved.
The stitched man twitched, his head snapping to the side with a suddenness that made Vincent flinch. The sound of taut threads straining against flesh filled the air, faint but sickening, as though the movements were tearing him apart from the inside. Vincent’s breath hitched, his body locking in place as the thing’s focus seemed to shift, heavy, deliberate, and inescapable. The air felt colder, his skin prickling as if the room itself recoiled from whatever life animated the patchwork figure.
“Backpack,” the pink-haired girl whispered, her voice barely audible. “What do we do?”
Vincent didn’t answer. His mind raced, piecing together the fragments of this puzzle. The table. The mannequins. The doctor. They were all connected, tied together in some way he didn’t yet understand. But one thing was clear, whatever game they were playing, it had just begun.