We head to the 4th, the moment heavy in the air, like the stillness just before a storm breaks loose. The corridor stretches ahead, a long, dim tunnel lined with worn, pale walls that seem to absorb every whisper, every hurried breath. I can feel my heartbeat thrumming in my ears as the group moves forward, footsteps muffled on the threadbare carpet, shadows flickering against the dull fluorescent lights overhead. No one says a word. The silence is thick enough to slice through.
It’s always like this when we reach the 4th—like something unseen is waiting there, just out of sight, lurking behind the cracked door at the end of the hall. I glance sideways at the others, trying to catch any sign of fear or hesitation, but their faces are blank, resolved, or maybe just trained to hide what they really feel. I’m not sure which. There’s an unspoken rule here: don’t show weakness, don’t question, just follow.
The door is heavy, an iron slab painted in chipped gray that creaks ominously as it swings open. The smell hits me first: stale air mingled with a faint metallic tang, like rusted chains and forgotten memories. Beyond the door, the room stretches out—a cavernous space filled with shadows and flickering, half-broken lights. It’s cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes your skin crawl. The air feels thick, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something.
We step inside, and the door thuds shut behind us, sealing us in like a tomb. I look around, taking in the rows of empty chairs, the dusty old equipment piled haphazardly in the corners, the peeling posters on the walls that hint at long-past glories and forgotten rules. But what really draws my attention is the large screen at the far end, flickering with static, waiting for a signal that hasn’t come in a long time.
The leader of the group steps forward, his voice low but commanding. “We’re here for the test. You know the drill.” It’s the same line they always use, as if saying it enough times will make it easier. I swallow hard and nod. The others do the same, their eyes fixed on the screen.
The screen blinks and then comes to life, revealing a distorted, grainy image of a figure standing alone in a vast, empty landscape. The figure is barely visible, a shadow among shadows, but the tension in the room spikes instantly. The test has begun.
Our task is simple in theory but impossible in practice: we must navigate the landscape, find the figure, and bring them back. The details are vague, the risks immense. No one really knows what lies beyond that flickering image—only that many who’ve tried have never returned. Some say it’s a trap, others a challenge, a rite of passage. But none deny the fear that grips their hearts.
I step forward, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. My hands tremble slightly as I adjust the device strapped to my wrist—a small, blinking piece of tech that will track our progress, send signals back, and hopefully guide us through the maze. The leader nods at me, and I can see a flicker of something behind his steely exterior—maybe hope, maybe desperation.
The room fades away as the screen pulses, and suddenly I’m pulled into the landscape it showed—a barren wasteland under a sky heavy with dark clouds, the wind howling through cracked rocks and dead trees. The ground beneath me is rough and uneven, and every step echoes like thunder in the empty expanse. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, more real than reality itself, yet completely alien.
I take a deep breath and start walking, eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of the figure. The landscape is deceptive—every shadow could hide danger, every sound might be a warning. My mind races, trying to remember the snippets of information we were given, the strategies, the possible traps. But most of it feels useless here, lost in the vastness of this strange world.
Hours seem to pass in minutes as I push forward, the figure always just out of reach, like a mirage in the distance. Sometimes I catch glimpses—flashes of movement, the faintest outline against the bleak terrain—but when I get closer, they vanish. The loneliness gnaws at me, but I force myself to keep moving. Turning back isn’t an option.
Suddenly, the ground trembles beneath my feet, a deep rumble rolling through the air. I freeze, heart pounding, eyes darting to the sky where dark clouds twist and churn like angry beasts. From the distance, a shape emerges—massive, hulking, its form shifting and writhing as if made from the shadows themselves. It moves toward me with deliberate, slow steps, each one sending vibrations through the earth.
Fear claws at my throat, but there’s no time to think. I remember the training—the evasive maneuvers, the signals, the way to use the device to create a temporary shield. My fingers fumble to activate it just as the shadow creature lunges. A blinding light bursts from the device, and the creature recoils, snarling in frustration before retreating into the gloom.
I’m gasping for breath, hands shaking, but there’s no time to rest. I push on, deeper into the wasteland, the horizon growing dimmer and the air colder. The figure finally appears, standing motionless atop a jagged cliff, bathed in a ghostly glow. Relief floods through me, but I know the hardest part is yet to come.
I signal the group back in the room, and they respond with anxious voices, their presence a faint tether to reality. Carefully, I approach the figure, who turns slowly to face me. It’s impossible to make out any features, just a silhouette framed by the fading light. Then, without warning, it raises a hand and speaks—not in words, but in a rush of images and emotions that flood my mind.
I see memories, fears, hopes—all tangled together in a chaotic storm. The figure isn’t just a person; it’s a symbol, a test of our deepest selves. To bring it back, I have to confront not only the external dangers but the shadows inside me. The realization hits hard: this journey isn’t about physical endurance but about facing what I’ve long tried to bury.
Summoning every ounce of courage, I reach out and take the figure’s hand. The world blurs, the cold bite of the wasteland fading as the light grows brighter, enveloping us both. When I open my eyes, I’m back in the room on the 4th floor, the screen now dark, the air heavy but somehow lighter.
The group stares at me, their expressions a mix of awe and disbelief. I don’t know how to explain what I’ve experienced, the weight of the figure’s memories pressing on me like a tide. But I know one thing for certain: nothing will ever be the same again.
As we leave the room, the door clicking shut behind us, the silence returns, but it feels different now—less like a shroud and more like a promise. We’ve faced the 4th and come back changed, carrying the echoes of a journey few will understand. The hallways stretch ahead, endless and uncertain, but for the first time, I feel ready to walk them.
