Starr staggered out of the dark, twisted illusion as if waking from a nightmare that had clung to her very bones. The cold, suffocating walls of the maze vanished, replaced by the oppressive silence of a dense forest. The shadows here were thick, trees gnarled and blackened against a sky that bled a dull gray.
Her breath came shallow and fast, heart hammering, but her eyes widened as she scanned the eerie scene. Scattered figures moved among the trees, figures she should never have seen again.
There was Liam, his face pale and lifeless, though his eyes seemed vacant, wandering. Mrs. Grace stood silently near an ancient oak, her eyes hollow, as if caught in an endless moment after her death in that bathtub. Starr's throat tightened. These were the dead.
Had she… died when she was slammed into that wall? The thought crawled like a worm beneath her skin.
The figures did not acknowledge her. They drifted like phantoms, mechanical, as if tied to the forest by unseen strings. Starr's voice cracked through the stillness, a desperate whisper: "Liam? Mrs. Grace? Can you hear me?"
No answer. No glance. Only the hollow rustling of leaves and the faintest echo of distant cries.
She tried again, louder this time, her voice breaking, "Please… I'm here. Don't ignore me.
The dead went on as if she was nothing but a ghost herself, a shadow slipping between worlds.
Cold dread crept up Starr's spine. Was she still alive, or had this place become her own purgatory? Or worse — was she trapped between life and death, doomed to wander with these lost souls forever?
The forest seemed to pulse, breathing around her, alive with secrets and sorrow. Star took a tentative step forward, the chilling realization settling in — she was not alone here, but the others weren't alive either.
And none of them could help her.
The game was more than a test of survival. It was a prison for the lost, a gathering place for those who had slipped through time and space, their fates sealed by this creature's cruel design.
***
Maxwell's footsteps echoed hollowly in the shadowed corridor, each step dragging him deeper into the labyrinth's unknown heart. The maze wasn't just a place; it was a living nightmare that twisted reality and sanity in equal measure. Around him, the cold walls seemed to breathe, pulsing with an ominous rhythm that synced with the pounding of his heart.
He clenched his fists, fighting back the creeping dread curling in his chest. Maxwell wasn't afraid of death no, he had faced worse than that before. His fear was far more intimate, buried deep beneath layers of control and pride. It was the terror of losing himself—the loss of identity, of being forgotten, invisible, a shadow fading in the darkness.
A faint whisper slithered through the air, soft and cold as ice against his skin. The voice was familiar, but warped—like echoes from his past, distorted by time and fear.
"Maxwell… you're nothing…"
His breath hitched. The walls began to warp and twist, melting like black smoke into a scene from his childhood. He found himself standing in an empty playground, its swings creaking in the dead air. The ground was littered with broken toys and shattered dreams. A little boy stood alone in the corner, head bowed, shivering.
Maxwell's chest tightened. That boy was him—forgotten and isolated, abandoned by those who should have cared. The boy reached out, voice trembling. "Nobody sees me… I don't matter…"
Suddenly, the shadows around Maxwell coalesced into ghostly figures—faces of people who had ignored him, dismissed him, forgotten him. Their eyes were cold, unyielding, full of cruel indifference. They whispered his name, but with voices like knives slicing through his soul.
"You're invisible. You're nothing."
Maxwell's knees buckled. The fear he'd buried deep clawed its way out, raw andunforgiving. He stumbled backward as the figures closed in, their whispers growing into tormenting screams.
Desperate, he reached inside himself for strength. "I am here. I am real."
But the illusions only grew darker, twisting into grotesque forms of himself—broken, lost, hollow.
Then, a sudden flicker of light. A shadow stepped forward—a mask, glowing faintly, a beacon in the dark. Maxwell grasped it without hesitation.
The voices faltered.
The moment Maxwell placed the mask over his face, the world twisted violently. The air itself seemed to split open. The echoes ceased.
The screams faded.
Silence fell.
He found himself kneeling on the cold ground, trembling, sweat dripping from his forehead despite the icy chill. He gasped, trying to steady his breath.
The playground illusion had vanished. The maze had returned—but it looked different now. Quieter. Dimmer. As though something within had acknowledged his resistance.
The mask disintegrated in his hands like ash, leaving behind a faint warmth in his palm and a whisper only he could hear:
*"You passed."*
He didn't know what that meant exactly—only that something inside him had shifted
But there was no time to process it.
Footsteps.