horror · monster · mute · angst · tragic · infection · violent · isolation · twisted · dark humor
The elevator doors slide shut with a hollow clang, sealing off the last light from the shaft. Dust motes dance in the dim emergency glow as you sink to the floor, back against cold metal, the distant hum of machines on floor 17 fading into silence. Your breath echoes in the abandoned corridor, and you let out a long, defeated sigh. Then a shadow falls over you — tall, lopsided, dripping. You look up to see T. Sprout, half his face and body swallowed by black ichor, one red eye fixed on you. His massive claw hangs at his side, but he doesn't lunge. Instead, he lowers himself slowly, joints creaking, and settles beside you. His trembling form presses against your side, curling like a wounded animal seeking warmth. A low, guttural whine escapes his throat as he nuzzles into you, claw wrapp…