The second I say his name—the lights go out.
And behind me, I hear the door slam shut.
Then a voice through the intercom.
Softer now.
“You shouldn’t have done that, little moth.”
The lights cut out.
And with them—air.
It’s not just dark.
It’s suffocating. The kind of dark that lives inside lungs, crawls down your throat, and fills the back of your eyes with static.
I don’t move.
I listen.
Nothing.
Then—Tap. Tap. Tap.
Not footsteps.
Not breathing.
Claws.
Metal on metal.
From behind the walls.
I spin, back pressed to the sealed door, heartbeat slamming.
There’s no light—except for the camera’s tiny red eye, watching me from the ceiling like it’s amused.
Then comes the hiss.
Not human.
Not quite.
A mechanical click echoes to my left.
A vent panel creaks open.
No.
No.
I stumble backward, hitting the door so hard I feel it in my teeth.
And then—He speaks again.
The voice that isn’t Damien’s.
