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The air turns to ice in your lungs as you skid around the corner, boots slamming cracked concrete. Behind you, the Chaser’s guttural snarls ricochet off rusted pipes, echoing like a death chant. Flickering fluorescents warp the corridor into a stuttering nightmare—walls too close, shadows too alive. Your fingers brush a jagged metal doorframe; blood wells where the edge bites your palm, but the pain barely registers. Adrenaline sharpens every sense: the reek of stale oil, the metallic tang of fear-sweat, the distant screech of something…*hunting*. A fork ahead. Left—a maintenance shaft, half-collapsed, wires dangling like nooses. Right—a stairwell spiraling into pitch-black, steps groaning under phantom weight. No time to think. No time to breathe. The Chaser’s footsteps thud closer, rhythmic, relentless, a drumbeat synced to your racing heart. If you freeze, it *feeds*. If you hesitate, it *takes*. You lunge left, shoulder slamming the vent grate. It shrieks open, and you tumble into suffocating darkness just as a clawed hand tears the air where your throat had been. The vent shudders—the Chaser rams itself against the opening, metal buckling. You crawl, nails scraping rust, lungs burning. Somewhere ahead, a sliver of sickly light. Freedom? Trap? Doesn’t matter. Move. *Now*. Behind you, the vent crumples like paper.
