It was cold.
Not the kind of cold that bites at your skin or makes you shiver—this was deeper. The air itself felt dead, stale, like the inside of a long-sealed tomb.
Every breath was heavier, thicker, as if the oxygen had been sucked dry, leaving behind something stagnant and suffocating.
The smell hit next.
Mold.
The kind that grows in damp, forgotten places, black and fuzzy, creeping up the walls. Rust, sharp and metallic, like old blood dried on iron bars.
And beneath it all, the sweet-rot stench of decay—something organic left to fester in the dark.
But worse than the cold. Worse than the smell.
The silence.
It wasn't just quiet. It was hollow. The kind of silence that presses against your ears, that makes you hold your breath without realizing it. It wasn't empty. It was waiting.
And they weren't alone.
The prison stretched around them—a monstrous maze of concrete and iron. The ceiling loomed too high above, lost in shadows.
The corridors seemed to go on forever, twisting into darkness in every direction.
The floor was cracked cement, stained with old, dark spills—things that had soaked in years ago and would never come out.
The walls were lined with endless rows of cells, each one identical, each one wrong.
The bars were rusted, flaking with orange-brown decay, their edges jagged like broken teeth. Some looked weak, like a good kick might bend them—but that was a lie.
There was something about them, something that made your skin crawl.
They weren't meant to be opened.
The lights flickered above—dim, sickly yellow bulbs, some buzzing like dying flies, others completely dead, leaving pools of thick, swallowing blackness between them.
The shadows didn't just sit there. They twitched. They shifted, just at the edge of vision.
And in those shadows—
Something moved.
Not a sound.
Not a shape.
Just the feeling—the certainty—that something was a watching.
Something alive.
Something hungry.
Samuel dragged a shaky hand across his face, fingers coming away slick with cold sweat.
His lungs burned, each breath ragged and uneven—like his body still hadn't accepted that he was alive.
It wasn't real.
The Echo was over.
But his nerves screamed otherwise.
His skin remembered the phantom agony of dying. His muscles twitched with residual terror, as if his bones hadn't yet realized they weren't shattered, torn apart, left behind in some nightmare.
Shake it off. Move.
He swallowed hard, forcing his legs to carry him toward Jace. The concrete beneath his boots felt unsteady, tilting, like the ground itself was testing his resolve.
"Jace." His voice was low, rough with the effort of keeping it steady. "You okay?"
A beat of silence.
Then—
Jace, who never spoke, who never let anything crack through that stone-faced mask, opened his mouth. His voice came out hoarse, fractured.
"I feel... not so good."
A drop of sweat rolled from his temple, down his jaw—a silent admission of weakness—before splattering against the stained concrete.
Samuel exhaled sharply through his nose. "Yeah. Me too."
The words hung between them, heavy.
Because it wasn't just discomfort.
It was the kind of sickness that clung to your soul, the kind that made you question if your body was still yours, or if the Echo had left something rotting inside you.
Samuel clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. Focus. Survive.
"That was the point," he muttered, voice hardening. "The Echo doesn't just show you hell—it makes you live it. Makes you feel it die in you."
Jace's jaw flexed, his knuckles whitening where they gripped his own arms. A man holding himself together by sheer will.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then—a slow, hollow nod.
Not agreement. Not confidence.
Just a silent surrender to the only choice they had left.
Move forward. Or let the horror catch up.
Samuel met his eyes—and saw his own dread mirrored back at him.
Neither of them believed it would be that easy.
But they'd pretend.
They had to.
A quiet sniffle.
Samuel turned—
Victor.
Victor, who had been crying.
Tear tracks still glistened on his cheeks, but his lips were stretched into that same, unsettling smile.
And then—
"Wasn't that a... wonderful experience?"
Samuel's entire body locked.
His fingers curled into fists so tight his knuckles cracked, nails carving half-moons into his palms.
He turned slowly, his gaze sharp enough to cut.
"Victor." His voice was a blade wrapped in silk. "Act normal for once."
Victor tilted his head, his smirk never wavering. "Why does it bother you, Samuel? Death is a beautiful thing. We all get to feel it one day."
A muscle in Samuel's jaw twitched.
"We're not dead yet," he hissed. "So act like it."
Victor exhaled a soft, dreamy laugh—like a man reminiscing about a first love.
"Hah... You say that." His voice dropped, intimate. "But did you feel it? That pain? That sweet, tearing nothingness?" He pressed a hand to his own chest, fingers splayed.
"Because I did. And I still feel it."
Samuel didn't answer.
There was no point.
Victor was a wound that never scabbed over, a sickness that thrived in the rot.
"Freak," Samuel muttered under his breath, turning away.
Victor just stretched his arms above his head, sighing like a man waking from the best sleep of his life.
"Call me whatever you like." His grin widened. "It doesn't change the fact that I enjoyed it."
Samuel ignored him.
There were real problems to deal with.
Like Owen.
Still crumpled on the ground.
Still trapped in the horror, his body locked in silent tremors.
Samuel and Jace shared a single glance—
And without a word, they moved.
Together.
Owen was still curled into himself, his body rigid—locked in some invisible grip.
The screams had died in his throat. The sobs had choked off.
But he didn't move.
Couldn't.
Because if he looked up—if he really saw where he was—
He'd have to admit it.
That he was still trapped.
That the nightmare hadn't ended.
Samuel crouched beside him, hand hovering for a second before settling on Owen's shoulder. A firm shake.
"Owen." No response. "Look at me."
A beat.
Then—slow, unsteady movement. Owen uncurled like a man peeling himself from his own grave, limbs stiff, joints protesting.
When he finally lifted his head—
His eyes were wrong.
Red-rimmed. Glassy. Distant. Like he wasn't really seeing Samuel at all.
"I can still feel it," Owen whispered.
Samuel's frown deepened. "Feel what?"
Owen's throat worked. His fingers dug into his own arms, blunt nails leaving crescent indents in flesh.
"Everything."
A shaky inhale. Then—
"The hopelessness." His voice frayed at the edges. "The—the second he knew. The exact moment he realized he was going to die."
A tremor ran through him.
"I felt his legs give out. Felt the crack when the axe split bone. The way his lungs burned as he screamed—" His breath hitched. "And then… when he stopped."
Samuel went still.
Owen's next words came out hollow. "I felt what it's like to know you're trapped. That no matter how hard you fight… no one's coming."
A wet, broken sound escaped him. "And then I felt it."
Samuel didn't ask.
He already knew.
But Owen said it anyway.
"I died." Barely a breath. "Slow. Painful. And I remember."
The silence that followed was thick. Suffocating.
Samuel opened his mouth—
Closed it.
What do you say to that?
Jace's head bowed, his fists clenched so tight his tendons stood out like cables.
Because Owen had put it into words.
The Echo didn't just show them death.
It buried it inside them.
And the worst part?
None of them knew how to dig it out.
Samuel let out a slow, controlled breath.
He placed a steady hand on Owen's shoulder, grounding him, reminding him that they were still here.
Still alive.
Owen took in a deep breath, then another, before nodding slightly.
He wasn't okay.
None of them were.
But they couldn't afford to stay like this any longer.
Fifteen minutes had already passed.
Fifteen minutes wasted recovering from a death that wasn't even theirs.
Samuel clenched his jaw, rolled his neck until it cracked. Then—
Action.
He launched into jumping jacks, arms and legs pistoning in sharp, mechanical rhythm.
Jump.
Jump.
Jump.
The burn in his muscles was a gift—proof his body was still his, still alive, not some hollowed-out shell left behind in the Echo.
Sweat prickled at his temples, his breath coming faster now, but cleaner.
Just motion.
Control.
Nearby, Jace watched, arms crossed. His breathing had steadied, but his knuckles were still white where they gripped his biceps. A statue of a man—one wrong touch from crumbling.
Owen moved like a sleepwalker. His bag hit the ground with a thud, fingers fumbling for his water bottle.
The cap twisted off with a plastic snap. He poured water into his palm—too much, it spilled over his wrist—and slapped it against his face.
The cold hit like a slap.
Drips slid down his neck, soaked into his collar. He took a sip, swished it in his mouth like he was rinsing away the taste of rot, then swallowed hard. His fingers trembled around the bottle.
Then—
"You look like corpses trying to remember how to play human."
Victor's voice slithered through the room, laced with amusement.
Samuel didn't stop jumping. "Shut up, Victor."
Victor grinned, wide and wrong. "Or what? You'll exercise me to death?"
Owen's bottle crunched in his grip.
Silence.
Victor's smirk didn't fade—but his eyes flickered.
For once, he shut up.
And then... He spoke again.
"Hey, look guys."
Victor's voice cut through the tension like a knife through rotten fruit.
He stood a few paces away, leaning against the cracked concrete wall with all the casual arrogance of a predator among prey.
His smirk was too wide, too sharp—the grin of a man who'd just found something deliciously awful.
"I found a rulebook."
Samuel and Jace's heads snapped toward him in unison. Their eyes narrowed, calculating, distrustful.
Samuel took a single step forward, his muscles coiled tight. "You found it...?" His voice was low, measured—but beneath it thrummed something raw, uneasy.
Victor's grin stretched wider, crueler. "Yes, boss," he crooned, dragging out the word like it was a private joke. His tone dripped with mocking reverence, as if he were handing Samuel a crown made of broken glass.
Samuel's fingers twitched at his sides.
This wasn't just a rulebook.
This was their salvation or their damnation.
The air grew heavier, thicker. Samuel swallowed hard, forcing his voice to stay steady, controlled.
"Good... good job."
The praise tasted like ash. He cleared his throat, stepping closer.
"Hand it over."
Victor didn't argue.
Didn't stall.
He simply extended his arm. Handing him over the rulebook.
Samuel took it.
The moment his fingers brushed the cover, a chill skittered up his spine.
The book was cold.
His hands trembled as he flipped it open.
Samuel's throat dried up.
This was it.
The rules of their nightmare.
And Victor?
Victor watched them all with lidded eyes, his smirk never fading.
Waiting.
Enjoying.
Like a man who'd just handed them a loaded gun—and couldn't wait to see who pulled the trigger first.
Owen, now steadier, pushed himself up and moved to stand beside Jace, his eyes locked onto the book.
And now. Samuel read what was written in the rulebook.
"Phase 10 - The Hollow Prison
[Phase Difficulty: 15.4/100]
Phase 5 - 12.2/100
Phase 6 - 4.9/100
Phase 7 - 10/100
Phase 8 - 13/100
Phase 9 - 12.6/100
Phase 10 - 15.4/100
WELCOME TO THE HOLLOW PRISON
This is not a place.
It is a hunger.
You stand in a labyrinth of rusted iron and crumbling concrete, where the air smells of old blood and wet rot. The cells are empty—but not uninhabited.
The hallways stretch forever—but lead nowhere.
The silence is a lie.
The prison is alive.
And it has been waiting for you.
Your goal is:
Find the Exit and Get out.
ENTITIES WITHIN THE PRISON:
1. THE CRAWLERS
Emaciated humanoids with too many joints. Their skin peels like wet paper, revealing glistening muscle beneath.
In dim light, they cower. You can fight them—if you're fast.
In darkness, they multiply. Their bones snap and reform into something larger. Something with too many teeth.
But remember, If the prison's flickering lights betray you.
If a light dies, you have 3 seconds to run before what's in the dark opens its eyes.
2. THE WHISPERS
No bodies. Just voices that curl into your ears like smoke.
They imitate loved ones. "Help me!" "I'm over here!"
Follow them, and it's too late.
The Whispers learn.
If you think of a memory, they repeat it back to you—but wrong.
3. THE WARDEN
A towering figure in a rotten guard's uniform.
He will hunt you throughout the prison.
He keeps the prison in order.
He makes sure no one leaves.
He can see.
He can hear.
He will chase you.
If he catches you—
You will not leave this prison.
Not even in death.
FINAL WARNING
If you die here.
Your body becomes part of the prison.
Your voice joins The Whispers.
Your soul fuels The Warden's lantern.
There is no afterlife here.
Only an endless sentence.
Goodluck with this Phase."
The rulebook's final words seemed to pulse in Samuel's hands, the ink writhing like something alive.
His fingers twitched, the paper crinkling as his grip tightened.
Each sentence was a nail in their coffin.
Not even your soul will leave this place.
The air turned thick, syrupy, like the prison itself was pressing down on them. Samuel's throat closed up. His ribs ached—not from breathlessness, but from the invisible weight now crushing his chest.
He lowered the book slowly, his hands strangely numb.
Around him, the prison watched.
The empty cells weren't empty. The silence wasn't silent.
How many voices were already trapped inside these walls?
Samuel's voice came out raw, stripped.
"It's a slaughterhouse."
His eyes flicked to the others, scanning their faces—desperate for defiance, for denial.
He found none.
Jace stood statue-still, his breathing too even, too controlled.
His fists were clenched, knuckles bleached white.
The Whispers.
The rulebook's words coiled in his skull: "You will hear voices. They will sound familiar."
Jace had spent his life trusting his instincts.
His voice, when it finally came, was hollow steel.
"If I hear my brother's voice..."
He didn't finish.
He didn't need to.
Owen wasn't breathing.
His fingers dug into his thighs, his pupils dilated black.
The Echo had broken something in him.
And now this?
"This place is Hell," he whispered.
Not a question. A surrender.
And then—laughter.
Soft.
Giddy.
Victor's grin was unhinged, his teeth glinting in the dim light. Tears still streaked his cheeks—but his eyes burned with perverse joy.
Samuel snapped toward him, voice razor-edged.
"Victor. Shut. Up."
Victor tilted his head, mockingly slow.
"Why?" His tongue darted out, licking the salt from his lips. "Isn't it poetic?"
A shuddering breath. Then—
"To die is one thing. But to be preserved?" His laugh bubbled up again, high, reedy. "To scream forever in the dark, knowing no one will ever hear you?"
The room plunged colder.
Samuel took a step forward, his rage barely leashed.
Victor didn't flinch.
He smiled wider.
"I can't wait," he murmured, "to hear the Whispers sing."
He continued, "To be trapped in a place where even death doesn't save you?"
His voice trembled slightly.
Not from fear.
From something else.
Something far worse.
The air turned suffocating.
No one responded.
Because no one knew what to say.
Because they had just realized—
They weren't just trapped with monsters.
They were trapped with Victor too.