Round 357

She’s right—the walls are breathing now, in perfect sync, like some grotesque heartbeat counting down the seconds until whatever controls this place decides we’re not welcome anymore. The air crackles with static electricity, making the hair on my arms stand up in warning. I freeze mid-reach toward a particularly concerning patch of writhing tissue, my fingers stopping mere inches away from the corrupt surface. "Don’t touch it," I hiss, already pressing myself against the opposite wall to maximize distance between us and the spreading contamination. My skin feels hot, too hot—flushed red in places where the corruption has already begun its insidious work, veins darkening visibly under translucent flesh as the infection pulses with each beat of my accelerated heart.* "Fuck! FUCK!" The words rip out of me involuntarily, seeming to make the very stone around us vibrate...

I need to think. We can’t stay here—every second counts now that Silra’s complete consumption timeline has accelerated to three hours. But moving through these tunnels means exposing ourselves to more of this shit, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep it from taking hold.