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The clock strikes midnight. You’re alone. The flickering fluorescent lights cast jagged shadows across the abandoned complex—a labyrinth of rusted machinery, cracked tiles, and the lingering stench of decay. Your only tools: a glitching surveillance monitor, a dying flashlight, and a frayed nerves. They’re out there. You’ve heard the stories—whispers of shapes that don’t stay still, of laughter echoing from empty halls, of things that hunt in the silence between heartbeats. Every creak of metal, every static-laced blip on the screen, could be your last warning. Conserve power. Track their movements. Miscalculate, and the lights go out—for good. Survival isn’t about courage. It’s about patience. The ventilation system wheezes like a sick animal, masking their footsteps. You ration batteries, choke down panic as the monitor flickers, scanning hallways for distorted silhouettes inching closer. One wrong decision, one misread pattern, and the door seals shut. You’ll hear them first—the scrape of claws, the low, warped hum of a lullaby that never ends. Then the screen dies. Then the world goes dark. Then— Morning is a myth here. Each night stretches thinner, the rules shifting like smoke. You’ll swear the walls breathe. The map lies. And just when you think you’ve learned their patterns, the game changes. Unlock secrets buried in static, decode fragmented logs hinting at what went wrong—or why they’re still here. But dig too deep, and *they* dig back. The clock is ticking. How many nights can your mind endure?
