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The elevator stank of burnt wiring and adrenal sweat. Lucas Hayes came to consciousness with his cheek pressed against cold steel, the floor vibrating with the machine's perpetual ascent. A cracked display panel flickered: DAY 9 | SAFETY DURATION 00:03:44.

Three warped tones echoed as the system imprinted directly onto his retinas:

[Precognitive Matrix Activated]
[Sector Transition Imminent]

His vision fractured into augmented reality overlays. Bloodshot eyes darted between floating diagnostics:

[Destination: Floor 248]
Threat Classification: Standard Biohazards (Homo corruptus) x20
Recommended Arsenal: Bladed weapons (76% efficacy)
Reward Manifest: Silver Cache (Full eradication required)

Lucas gripped the shock-baton strapped to his thigh, its ceramic surface still smeared with luminescent fungal spores from yesterday's skirmish. The elevator's speakers emitted a decaying piano chord as new text scrolled through static:

[Destination: Floor 249]
Containment Unit: Obsidian Reliquary (SCP-XXXX Variant)
Threat Level: White (Placid)

His boot tapped rhythm against the floor where Natalie Evans had bled out seven cycles ago. The memory played in crystal clarity - her screams syncing perfectly with the elevator's current pitch-shifted rendition of Clair de Lune.

[Destination: Floor 250]
Entity Designation: Noctis lamia (Cognitive Hazard Class C)*
Survival Probability: 41.2±18%

The control panel erupted in fractal patterns as reality glitched. Lucas glimpsed William Carter's skeleton key lodged in the emergency brake slot - the same key that had melted through three layers of Kevlar when its owner died.

"Beta protocol. Always beta." He smashed blood-crusted knuckles against the floor selector. The elevator screamed in harmonic resonance as it deviated from its programmed path.

Doomsday Elevator

Ethan's bladder screamed louder than any zombie. He danced in the elevator's cramped space, chocolate wrapper crumpled in one hand while the other clutched his crotch. The System's alert blinked mockingly:

Recommendation: Void bladder within 12 minutes

"Fucking water rationing," he hissed. The trade screen taunted him with absurd offers—someone was auctioning a Rolex for half a protein bar. His snake carcass listing remained stubbornly unsold.

The elevator shuddered. Five heat signatures pulsed on the System's minimap. Ethan gripped his machete as the doors revealed a derelict office floor. Rotting carpet squelched underfoot.

The first zombie's skull split like overripe melon. Black ichor sprayed across "Employee of the Month" plaques. Four more shambled through a warped metal door—their milky eyes locking onto fresh meat.

Ethan's boot tapped the elevator threshold like metronome. In-out. In-out. Zombie heads swiveled in grotesque synchrony.

Machete met cranium #2. Three remaining.

By the seventh threshold tease, the undead cluster resembled macabre ballet dancers. Ethan's arm became piston—swing-retreat-swing. When the last corpse crumpled, the System chimed:

Reward Issued: P229 + 39 Rounds

He nearly wept at the food crate's contents. Three water bottles became holy grails. The real prize? The rusted door's hinges—20kg of pure iron wrenched free with last-minute desperation.

The Efficiency Overlord