That Which Can Be Known

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Your breath, shallow and desperate from your marathon sprint, catches in your throat as you stare down the hall. A single, beady eye blinks five times at you, before shifting into the darkness.

You feel your stomach clench and turn with sickness again as you clutch your keycard, its shiny number 4 glimmering in the dark. You had to abandon the Level 5 card when it transformed into a 5-pointed cephalopod in your hand… you didn't like to think about it, the noises were disgusting.

The wet slaps of the fleshfish echo in the distance, and you realize you must begin running again. Taking a deep breath, you look left, then right, and round the corner into the unknown.

It seems the further down you go, the more desolate the building becomes. Rust becomes blood, walls become holes, the injured become bodies, sitting nestled tightly together in the destruction.

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