the Gate of the Hollow

The walls were screaming.

Not the way humans screamed. Not in fear or pain.

This was something older. Something deeper. Something that had never needed a mouth or lungs or flesh—just existence. A presence vibrating at the frequency of reality itself, unraveling the air, sinking into the stone, pressing into the space between heartbeats.

The tunnel was closing in.

Not with dust. Not with rubble.

With itself.

The stone wasn't collapsing. It was moving, folding inward, warping like a muscle tightening around an infection.

And we were the infection.

I tightened my grip on my rifle. The kinetic charge pulsed beneath my skin, threading through my bones, sinking into my marrow. My heartbeat hammered against my ribs, syncing with the green glow of my weapon, but even that rhythm felt wrong—like something was trying to sync me to itself instead.