Massacre

As they stepped into the light, they expected a reprieve.

But what greeted them was worse than any screeching beast or whispering dark.

Bodies littered the stone floor—some twitching in agony, others still and bloated, faces frozen in horror or rage. The torchlight didn't bring clarity—it only made the blood shine.

Boys. Girls. Pale, skeletal. Feral. Battling like starved dogs.

And at the center of it all…

A box.

Wooden. As large as a shed. Bound in twisted chains that pulsed faintly—like veins beneath skin. It sat untouched, but everyone fought for it. Tore each other 

apart for it. Eyes locked on it even as they bled out, as if the mere sight of it promised escape—or damnation.

Luke's stomach dropped.

"Oh… shit."

This wasn't salvation.

This was another test.

Another nightmare in a different skin.

They had chosen this path to avoid the beast. To survive.

The left had tremors—the unmistakable rhythm of something massive and hungry.

The center had the whistle—too controlled, too deliberate.

But here?

Here, death waited in silence. Watching.

No one welcomed them.

The fighters glanced at Luke's group—at their intact gear, their full stomachs, the light still burning behind their eyes. Then… they looked away.

Not out of mercy.

But fear.

To provoke the fresh ones would be to accelerate their own death.

They knew better. For now.

Luke's instincts screamed. This wasn't good fortune—it was the eye of the storm.

They're not attacking... we can use this. But one misstep, and this whole room will turn on us.

"Everyone, listen up," Luke muttered, just loud enough for the group to hear over the screeches and wet impacts.

"Stay sharp. We don't move in on that box. Not yet. Let them die for it."

He motioned toward the far corner of the room—half-shaded, blood-spattered, but momentarily unoccupied.

"Recuperate. Watch. Plan. But don't relax. The second someone wins that fight, they'll look to us next. And worse—that box…"

He trailed off, staring at the grotesque prize. The way the chains on it twitched. Like something inside was listening.

"...they don't know.

They don't know that opening that damn thing… calls the beasts."

As the group began moving to the corner, careful not to provoke the dying warriors, Luke glanced back to the entrance—

Gone.

Stone had swallowed it, seamless and cold. A wall where the corridor once was.

Then the room groaned.

Five new paths cracked open across the blood-slick walls—jagged, breathing, each one darker than the last. Their mouths yawned wide like hungry throats.

Luke's hands clenched.

Everything just got worse.

"Luke… the entrance... it's gone."

The brown-haired girl's voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.

Her eyes were wide—reflecting both the flickering torchlight and the chaos playing out at the center of the chamber. She gripped her weapon too tightly, her knuckles bloodless. Her lips trembled, but she forced herself to speak.

"…and the fight—it's almost over. Those new paths… they're not exits. They're graves."

She had learned his name only recently—overheard it from Elarin after hours of following him in the dark. But now it felt too heavy. Like calling out to someone already buried.

Luke didn't answer at first.

He stared at the place where the corridor had been, now sealed behind cold, unmoving stone. The weight of the chamber pressed down on him.

When he finally spoke, his voice wasn't a command.

It wasn't even hope.

It was something worn thin—raw and cracked at the edges.

"…I know."

He looked toward the box again. The battlefield. The few remaining fighters were now monsters—blood-crazed, limping, one dragging her intestines as she lunged at a boy who was barely breathing. The box pulsed once.

If the box at the Center summoned a beast…

Will another come here too?

Or will both come—drawn by the scent of madness and death?

Luke didn't move.

For the first time since all this began… he looked at them.

Really looked.

Their faces—ashen and stained with blood, 

their eyes heavy with exhaustion and things they didn't dare say aloud.

And yet… they stood.

Still breathing.

Still human.

He opened his mouth.

"Everyone…"

He wanted to ask their names.

Wanted to know who they were before they were reduced to meat in this place.

He wanted to say: 'Tell me about yourselves—because some of you won't be alive much longer.'

But the words died in his throat.

If he said that now, it would be surrender.

He'd already made himself a promise—that he would survive.

That he wouldn't die like an animal in the dark.

And if he gave in now… if he gave up… then he was already dead.

Instead, he forced the words out—steadier this time.

"We'll fight to the end."

He looked each of them in the eye.

One by one.

"I may not know all of your names now… so tell me after. After we make it out of this hell."

A pause. The sound of someone screaming across the room. Bones cracking.

Luke didn't flinch.

"Let's survive. All of us. No matter what."

And behind them… the box pulsed again.

Faster this time.

Like it heard him.

Like it laughed.

Then the battle went silent what stood was 5 people bloodied and tired they looked at the corpses they stepped on, like it was normal pavement, like they weren't stepping on children..on people who had dreams , hopes and aspirations. 

The battle fell into silence.

Only five remained.

Five figures—blood-soaked and hollow-eyed—stood among the mangled remains of what had once been nearly fifty people. Their clothes hung in tatters, caked with gore. Their skin was painted red, not by paint or war, but by the insides of friends, siblings, lovers. Yet their gazes were empty. Not proud. Not triumphant. Just numb.

They stepped over the corpses as if walking across cracked pavement.

Like they weren't treading on limbs torn from still-warm bodies.

Like they hadn't just crushed the skull of a child still reaching for her brother.

Like the dreams, the screams, the people… had never mattered.

They approached the box.

Towering and splintered, it loomed like a coffin made for something too monstrous to be buried.

On its side—a rusted lever, sunken into the wood like a parasite.

One of them reached out.

No hesitation.

CLANK.

BANG.

The box groaned.

Wood split with a wet crack as the side peeled open like a wound.

The five stepped inside.

The box swallowed them. The air changed. Heavier. Oily.

Luke didn't move. He didn't want to see what was inside. Whatever lay within wasn't salvation—it was another curse. He only clenched his jaw, his hand tightening around his weapon.

"Get ready to scatter..."

His voice was low, almost inaudible, but the others heard it clearly.

It was their unspoken rule now. One that had kept them alive in this abyss:

If you see a beast, you run.

No formation. No heroics.

Just scatter.

And pray it doesn't follow you.

The silence dragged. The box sat open, hungry.

Then—

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET

A whistle. Piercing. Wrong.

It didn't echo—it stabbed.

Straight through the room.

Through muscle.

Through bone.

Through heart.

It wasn't just a sound. It was a promise.

A beast was coming.

Something had heard.

Something was answering.

Luke's group stood frozen, blood pounding in their ears.

And then… the stone beneath their feet rumbled.

The torches flickered.

A low, bubbling growl crawled from one of the newly opened corridors.

And from inside the box…

Came the sound of sobbing.

Inside the box, the five stood in stunned silence.

The light from the torches behind them flickered across the splintered wood, revealing its contents.

Not gold.

Not a key.

Not a weapon.

Just water.

Clean, sealed jugs.

And food—bread, dried meat, protein packs wrapped carefully in cloth.

And at the very center of the box, pinned delicately to the back wall with a rusted 

nail, was a note.

One of them reached out with shaking hands and tore it free.

Their lips moved as they read silently.

Then aloud—voice hollow, cracked, as if the words themselves weighed too much to carry:

> "Congratulations on opening this supply box.

Here lies clean water and rations—well-earned.

After reading this message, please be advised:

A beast will arrive shortly."*

Silence.

Then the note fluttered from their fingers.

One of them laughed. Dry. Empty. Another screamed and threw a chunk of bread across the room. It hit the wall with a soft thud—mocking.

They hadn't won.

They were bait.

This was never a prize. It was a signal. A trigger.

Luke watched from the shadows, jaw clenched tight.

He didn't need to hear the note.

He could feel it.

"...Get ready," he murmured. "Scatter on my 

mark."

Elarin was frozen beside him, hands trembling.

Even Caelan looked pale under the flickering firelight.

From the box, one of the five victors collapsed to their knees and began to eat anyway—tears pouring down their face as they stuffed their mouth with bread, chewing mechanically.

Another curled up in the corner of the box, clutching a jug of water like a child hugging a stuffed toy.

They were done.

Too tired to run. Too broken to fight.

And then it came—

FWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET

A whistle.

But this one was different.

It wasn't distant.

It was close.

Right outside one of the newly opened corridors.

It screeched through the stone walls like claws across bone.

The torches dimmed. The ground shivered.

From the mouth of the farthest passage came a dragging sound.

Wet. Heavy.

Like something pulling a mass of flesh 

across jagged stone.

Luke didn't wait.

"SCATTER—NOW!"

The group burst apart, diving in different directions as the corridor vomited out a thing that didn't belong in light—

But it was too late for the ones in the box.

They just sat there, food in their mouths, water in their hands…

Waiting for the end they had been tricked into earning.