Samuel's hand hovered over the button.
He didn't press it immediately.
His fingers trembled—just slightly.
Not from fear.
Not from hesitation.
But from the sheer weight of what this meant.
The moment he pressed it, he and his team would be thrown into the unknown.
He had left Ethan on the 5th floor with Lena and the others.
Nathan, Ivy, Alice, and Harper were heading to the 20th floor.
Derek, Kacey, Toby, and Zara to the 25th.
And he…
He was about to enter Phase 10.
This stupid, cursed tower.
Samuel clenched his jaw.
He looked to his side.
Jace stood there, arms crossed, his expression unwavering.
He wasn't nervous. Not even a little.
He gave Samuel a firm nod. A signal.
Press it. We're ready.
Beside Jace, Owen stood tense but determined.
Samuel could see it in his stance—the slight squaring of his shoulders, the way he clenched his hands into fists.
Owen wasn't confident, but he was willing.
And then there was…
Victor.
He was drooling.
A thin strand of saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth, his eyes wide with anticipation.
Too excited.
Too unnatural.
Like he was waiting for something beautiful to happen.
Like this was all just a game.
Samuel swallowed down the unease and ignored him.
He looked back at the button.
And then—
He pressed it.
The world twisted.
The tower faded—replaced by something else.
And then it began.
The Echo.
A shudder ran through Samuel's spine as the sensation gripped him.
A feeling of cold emptiness.
Of unseen eyes.
And then—
The voices came.
A memory.
A death.
A final moment of someone before them.
Something had died in Phase 10.
And now, they would experience it.
Darkness.
Then—
A sharp gasp.
Ragged breathing.
**Footsteps—**heavy, uneven, frantic, pounding against the cold cement floor.
The group wasn't there physically, but they felt it—like they were inside the mind of a man running for his life.
A man was sprinting through a dimly lit hallway, his arms pumping, his body bulky, muscular—strong.
But strength didn't matter.
He was panicking.
His breath came out in short, choked gasps, his movements frantic, desperate.
He turned a sharp corner, his boots skidding against the concrete.
His body slammed into the wall, but he didn't stop—he couldn't.
Because behind him—
Something was coming.
A heavy, monstrous presence filled the air.
Lurking.
Hunting.
Then—
THUMP.
A slow, deliberate footstep.
Then another.
THUMP.
The ground shuddered beneath the weight.
And then—
The chains.
A deep, metallic rattle echoed through the prison as a rusted, heavy chain dragged across the floor.
The man didn't look back.
But the group could see it.
A towering figure.
At least ten feet tall, its massive form covered in a torn, decayed officer's uniform, dark stains smeared across the fabric.
Its face was hidden.
A leather bag covered its head, bolted shut around its neck like a sick execution hood.
But the worst part?
The chain.
A massive, rusted iron chain was bolted directly into its flesh.
The links dug deep into its shoulders, its arms, its back, fused into its body like it had been born with them.
And as it moved—the chains rattled.
A sound that carried through the prison, echoing down every hall.
A warning.
A promise.
That once you heard it—
You were already dead.
And then—
It started walking faster.
The man screamed.
The man kept running.
His footsteps slammed against the cold concrete, his ragged breathing growing more unstable with every step.
The prison was a maze.
Endless, winding corridors.
Each turn led to another identical hallway.
More cells.
More rusted metal bars.
More flickering lights that barely illuminated anything.
And yet—
No exit.
No way out.
Just the sound of chains dragging behind him.
Just the sound of death getting closer.
Samuel's stomach twisted.
Jace clenched his fists, his breathing growing heavier.
Owen shuddered, his hands gripping his arms, trying to fight the feeling crawling into his skin.
Victor…
Victor was smiling.
But even his expression twitched, like some part of him couldn't deny what they were feeling.
Because it wasn't just watching a memory.
It was living it.
They could feel the exhaustion in their legs.
They could feel the burning in their lungs.
They could feel the sheer, raw panic crawling up their spine.
And worst of all—
They could feel the hopelessness.
The man had been running for so long.
Turning corner after corner, only to find himself deeper in the labyrinth.
No matter how strong he was—
No matter how much he fought—
He was never going to escape.
And whatever which was chasing him, Knew that he would not escape.
Because it never ran.
It just walked.
And yet, it was catching up.
Because in this prison—
You can run all you want.
But you will never leave.
His lungs screamed for air.
His legs burned like fire.
His throat felt like it was being shredded from the inside.
And yet—
He kept running.
Turn after turn, hallway after hallway—nothing changed.
The same rusted metal bars.
The same flickering yellowish lights.
The same hopeless maze.
But then—
He saw it.
A wall.
A dead end.
No door.
No passage.
No escape.
He skidded to a stop, his boots scraping against the concrete as his body nearly collapsed from exhaustion.
He turned—desperate.
Hoping, praying, begging that maybe, just maybe, there was another path.
But there wasn't.
It was over.
His stomach twisted violently, a choked sob escaping his lips.
His vision blurred with tears.
His entire body trembled, his arms wrapped around himself as if that would somehow keep him safe.
His mind was screaming.
No. No. No. No. No.
This wasn't happening.
He couldn't die here.
He couldn't.
Not like this.
Not in this empty, rotting hellhole where no one would ever find his body.
His breath hitched.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, but he couldn't get enough air.
The walls felt like they were closing in.
His own heartbeat pounded against his skull, suffocating him.
And then, his legs gave out.
He collapsed onto his knees.
A broken, helpless heap.
His fingers dug into the cement, nails scraping against the rough surface as if clawing at it could somehow create an exit.
And then, in a breathless, desperate, shattered whisper—
"Someone save me… please… please, I don't want to die—please—"
His voice cracked.
The words barely left his lips.
They weren't meant for anyone.
Because no one was coming.
No one was ever coming.
And behind him—
The chains rattled.
THUMP.
A heavy step.
THUMP.
Another.
A deep, suffocating presence loomed behind him.
Towering.
Overpowering.
Inescapable.
The Warden had arrived.
THUMP.
The Warden's footsteps grew faster.
More deliberate.
More aggressive.
The heavy rattling of chains echoed through the prison, vibrating through the air like a death toll.
The man's eyes widened in terror as he looked up—truly seeing the Warden for the first time.
A hulking monster, its massive frame casting an inescapable shadow over him.
The chains—bolted into its flesh—dragged across the floor, scraping the ground like iron nails against stone.
The leather bag over its face was motionless.
But it was looking at him.
It knew him.
And it had chosen him.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
The man's body jerked violently as if his own instincts were trying to force him to run.
But he couldn't.
There was nowhere to go.
He pushed himself back, his palms scraping against the rough cement as he tried to press his body into the wall—
As if he could somehow sink into it.
As if that would somehow save him.
His voice came out in a choked sob.
"N-No, please—please—please don't! I—I didn't do anything! I swear—I DON'T DESERVE THIS!"
The Warden kept approaching.
Unstoppable.
Uncaring.
Indifferent to his cries.
The man began hyperventilating, his breath ragged and unstable, his body convulsing in terror.
"I-I don't wanna die—I DON'T WANNA DIE!"
His hands reached forward, as if begging—as if that would make the Warden understand.
"Please—PLEASE—have mercy—oh God—OH GOD—SOMEBODY HELP ME! PLEASE! I'LL DO ANYTHING! I'LL DO ANYTHING! I DON'T WANT TO DIE LIKE THIS!"
Tears poured down his face.
His body shook so violently it barely resembled a human anymore.
He pressed his forehead against the ground, bowing, surrendering, pleading.
"I'M BEGGING YOU! I'M BEGGING YOU, PLEASE! I'LL NEVER BREAK THE RULES AGAIN—JUST LET ME GO—PLEASE—PLEASE—"
But the Warden didn't care.
The Warden never cared.
Because begging meant nothing in this prison.
And mercy did not exist.
The chains rose.
And the man screamed.
The man looked up.
His eyes locked onto the Warden—matching its gaze despite the leather bag masking its face.
There were no visible eyes.
No expression.
And yet, he could feel them staring.
Cold. Unforgiving. Void of anything human.
And then—
The man's stomach dropped.
Because he saw what the Warden was holding.
A massive butcher's axe.
Rusty.
Heavy.
Rotten with time.
It wasn't sharp.
It wasn't meant for clean kills.
It was meant for pain.
For slow, agonizing, brutal pain.
For prolonged suffering.
The rust alone—**festering in old blood—**would poison his flesh, infect his wounds.
This wouldn't be quick.
This would be hell.
And the Warden—**the monstrous, towering enforcer of this cursed place—**would make sure of it.
The Warden moved—faster than something that size should.
It grabbed the man by the collar, lifted him effortlessly, and shoved him backward.
His body slammed against the cement floor.
And then—the axe swung upward.
The man's eyes widened in horror.
No—NO—
SHUNK!
The rusted blade came down, crashing into both his legs.
**Not fully severing—**not yet.
Just enough.
Just enough for the blade to dig deep into muscle, slicing tendons, crunching halfway through bone.
The pain—
The pain was indescribable.
It wasn't a sharp, clean agony—it was slow.
Ragged.
Dirty.
Like his flesh was being chewed through.
The man let out a scream so broken, so raw, it barely sounded human.
A wretched, animalistic shriek, his body convulsing violently as his nerves exploded in unbearable torment.
His hands slammed against the ground, fingers curling, nails scraping against concrete as his body tried to fight the pain—
But it was too much.
He tried to lift his legs.
To crawl away.
But the Warden's massive hand shot down—
And gripped his head, slamming his skull against the ground.
CRACK.
His vision flashed white.
His skull rattled.
The force of the impact made his eyes blur with black spots, nausea rolling over him.
His screams grew weaker.
Tears mixed with blood, his voice breaking into desperate sobs.
"Please—PLEASE, STOP—I'LL DO ANYTHING—PLEASE, GOD—"
The Warden didn't care.
The axe rose again.
SHUNK!
Another cut.
The blade sank deeper.
The bones in his legs cracked, split, snapped.
His nerves burned like fire, his body thrashing violently.
He reached up with trembling hands, punching at the Warden's face.
Useless.
His punches were nothing.
The Warden didn't even flinch.
It simply raised the axe one last time.
And then—
SHUNK!
The blade finally tore through.
His legs detached.
Completely.
A spray of hot, crimson blood erupted, splattering across the floor in thick, sticky pools.
The sound of severed flesh peeling away.
The exposed, splintered bone jagged and raw.
His body convulsed so violently it looked as if his very soul was trying to escape the pain.
And he didn't pass out.
No.
He felt everything.
And he kept screaming.
His hands clawed at the floor, at his own stumps, at his severed, twitching legs lying just inches away.
A desperate, dying animal.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't think.
His entire world was just pain.
And the Warden—
The Warden simply stood there.
Watching.
As the man bled out, drowning in his own agony.
The man watched.
Watched as his own legs—his own flesh and bone—lay motionless on the ground, separated from him forever.
A twisted, bloody mess of shredded muscle, severed nerves, and shattered bone.
And then—the pain hit him again.
It was unbearable.
A scorching, nauseating agony that burned through his entire body, making him feel like he was being peeled apart from the inside.
His stomach churned violently.
His body convulsed, spasming uncontrollably, his nerves screaming for mercy—but no mercy would come.
His arms trembled violently as he pushed himself up, trying to crawl backwards.
His hands slid through his own blood, warm and sticky, smearing across the floor as he dragged himself away.
His chest heaved, his breathing ragged, broken, every inhale tasting of iron and sickness.
"No—no, no, no, please—please—"
His voice was barely a whisper now.
He couldn't even scream anymore.
The Warden had taken that from him too.
And then—
The chains rattled.
And he felt it.
Something cold and heavy coiled around his neck.
Metal. Rusted. Unforgiving.
The Warden had looped the thick, iron chain around his throat, fastening it tight.
Too tight.
His airway immediately collapsed.
His throat locked up, his body instinctively thrashing, clawing at the chain with what little strength he had left.
His nails scraped against rusted metal, but it didn't move.
It was like trying to peel steel with his fingers.
His lungs burned, desperate for air—but no air came.
His vision blurred.
His ears rang.
His heart pounded in panic, beating erratically—a drum of terror, knowing death was near.
And then—
The Warden moved.
It started with a slow pull.
A steady tug on the chain.
The man jerked forward, choking, his fingers scrambling to dig into the concrete—anything to stop himself from being dragged.
But there was nothing to hold onto.
His nails scraped against the rough floor, tearing, breaking off one by one as his body lurched forward.
And then—
The Warden ran.
Lunging forward at terrifying speed.
The force ripped the man off the ground.
His severed legs left behind, a grotesque, twitching pile of flesh, while his mutilated body was yanked across the concrete like a ragdoll.
The friction was unbearable.
His back scraped against the rough pavement, shredding his skin layer by layer.
The raw flesh peeled away.
His spine scraped against the ground, bone grinding against stone, sending shocking pain through his already dying nerves.
His body left a long, smeared trail of blood, painting the prison floor in a thick, dark red streak.
The agony was too much.
His head rolled back.
His mouth opened in a silent, choked scream.
He was dying.
But the Warden wasn't done yet.
Then, suddenly—
It stopped.
The Warden, after running at inhuman speed, came to an abrupt halt.
And then—
It swung the chain forward.
With all its strength.
The force was unimaginable.
The man's body whipped through the air, flung forward like a slaughtered animal being thrown to the ground.
But the momentum—the sheer power behind it—
Did something worse.
The chain snapped his neck mid-air.
His head—still attached to the chain—was ripped clean off.
A grotesque, wet tear of muscle, tendon, and bone as his head detached violently from his shoulders.
A sickening POP.
A spray of thick, dark arterial bloodexploded from the open wound, splattering across the walls and floors in a horrific display of red.
His body crumpled to the ground, twitching, spasming, nerves still firing for a few seconds before it finally went still.
The head, still caught in the chain, rolled to a slow stop.
His face—
Frozen in an expression of pure, eternal terror.
And then—
Silence.
The Warden stood still for a moment.
As if to admire its work.
Then—without hesitation—
It turned and walked away.
Leaving the bloodied, headless corpse behind.
The body that would never be found.
The soul that would never escape.
Because in this prison—
Death is not the end.