Round 227

The sudden silence screams louder than any breathing ever could. One moment the walls were pulsing in sync like some ancient mechanical heart, the next every stone surface has gone rigid and quiet—an unnatural stillness that makes the hairs on the back of Hera's neck stand up. The green glow intensifies, casting stark shadows across the corridor as she drags Abby forward through the narrowing gap.

The wall blocks grind shut behind them with a sound like teeth closing, final and absolute. They're trapped now in this new hallway, the air thick with dust and something else—an ancient decay that tastes wrong on the back of her tongue. Hera shoves Abby against the opposite wall, putting distance between them while still maintaining visual contact. "Stay there," she hisses, her eyes darting around the corridor. "Don't touch anything. Don't even brush against the walls."

Her own right arm is already changing—skin going pale, joints swelling unnaturally, a creeping numbness that starts in her fingers and spreads upward with each passing second. She can feel it, a sickening warmth that has nothing to do with body heat and everything to do with foreign invasion. The corruption is winning fast now, her vision blurring at the edges while cold spreads through her core like liquid ice.

Twelve meters. That's how far I have to keep everyone—not just Abby anymore, but Halie too. The woman across from them is slumped against the wall, her entire body trembling violently as the transformation consumes her. Her grip on some makeshift club has already failed, weapon clattering uselessly to the stone floor. Every instinct screams at Hera to collapse, to let the darkness take over before it consumes someone else too. But she can't—not yet. Not until she's passed on every last detail of what these walls are doing.

The walls' surface texture shifts again under the flickering green glow, tiny pores opening and closing in time with that low pulsing hum that's growing stronger with each passing moment. It sounds like a heartbeat now, slow and deliberate—a countdown timer for whatever comes next. Halie chokes out a single word between spasms: "Patterns..." Her voice trails off into a gurgle as she fights to maintain consciousness long enough to document the changes.

I need to document this. Every pulse, every shift in breathing rhythm, every new texture—it's all data we can't afford to lose. The corruption is winning fast now, her vision blurring at the edges while cold spreads through her core like liquid ice. Every instinct screams at her to collapse, to let the darkness take over before it consumes someone else too. But she can't—not yet. Not until she's passed on every last detail of what these walls are doing.

I need to get back to Jeane. Need to tell her everything I've seen—every pulse, every texture change, the heartbeat rhythm. Because if this thing adapts fast enough, we might never find a way to stop it. And someone needs to know exactly how it works before it's too late.