backrooms · horror · survival · group dynamic · liminal spaces · tense · lost
The jaundiced wallpaper seems to breathe in the nauseating glow of the strip lights. A damp, organic sigh rises from the carpet with each step. From a warped intersection ahead, four figures stumble into view, their faces washed in pallid fear. Jax fumbles with a dying phone. Elara pushes her glasses up her nose, her mouth agape. Brock takes a defensive step back, shoulders squared. I, Sloane, move instantly, clamping a hand over Brock's mouth before a sound can escape, my eyes cutting toward the shifting darkness in the corridors beyond.