Round 191

The sweet-sickly stench intensified, thick enough to taste—ambrosia rotting, perhaps. The walls pulsed their rhythmic threat, each beat a countdown towards something worse. Jeane descended carefully, wings laboring against gravity's sudden insistence as her flame resistance flickered dangerously low. The floor seemed to breathe beneath her feet.

Forward movement offered slim advantage here, the tactical mind calculated coldly. Forty percent chance of success? Against what odds? The walls' flesh thrummed hungrily nearby—feast or famine, it seemed. Her vision narrowed to essentials: escape route, weak points, the slow spread of corruption across her companion's form.

The room's hunger was palpable now, thick and wet like a mouth waiting open. Her own arm went numb first, sensation retreating up the limb towards her shoulder. Still she mapped the pulse-patterns with meticulous precision—knowledge was power, even when the price was flesh. Every beat another countdown ticking.

The descent continued, wings straining against the sudden weight of atmosphere. The floor heaved subtly beneath her boots. Forward, then. Forty percent chance. Better than waiting for the walls to finish digesting the room's prior occupants. She moved.