He moved forward, his footsteps echoing against the cold, unfeeling walls of the facility.

The dim light flickered overhead, casting long, shfting shadows as he scanned his surroundings. His eyes landed on a large, rusted sign bolted to the wall.

LOADING BAY 1E.

A door stood beside it, slightly ajar, as if waiting for him.

Something about it felt… wrong.

But there was no turning back.

He stepped inside, the air growing heavier with every breath. Further down the route, another door caught his attention—its sign barely readable through the dust and grime.

Foreman’s Office.

Curiosity gnawed at him. He popped inside, eyes quickly sweeping the cluttered desk. A single note lay atop the scattered papers, its edges curled and brittle with age. He picked it up, scanning the scribbled handwriting.

The words sent a chill through him.

"The Red Smoke is everywhere down here. Worse than Playcare. And it’s not just hallucinogenic—it’s extremely flammable. No open flames. Ever. The last incident nearly took out the entire cave system. We’re lucky the foreman was quick enough to—"

The rest was smudged. Unreadable.

He exhaled sharply.

Flammable?

That changed things.

Folding the note into his pocket, he stepped back into the corridor. At the very end, another door loomed ahead, the words above it bold and unwelcoming.

CAVE 16.

His stomach twisted.

The second he entered, he was greeted by towering rock formations. The walls felt tighter here, the air dense with something ancient—something watching.

He pressed forward.

To his left, another sign caught his eye. An arrow pointed down a darkened path, the word "PRISON".



Prison?

A sinking feeling settled in his chest. The deeper he went, the worse it got. The silence. The stillness. The sheer wrongness of the place.

Then, a massive boulder blocked his path. But in the farthest corner, he spotted a narrow gap.

Great.



Sucking in a breath, he squeezed through, jagged rock scraping against his arms as he pushed himself to the other side.

When he emerged, the sight before him made his blood run cold.

A prison checkpoint.



The rusted metal bars. The eerie, suffocating emptiness.

Something was here.

He could feel it.

Swallowing hard, he stepped through the doorway, his eyes locking onto a large yellow door at the far end of the checkpoint. His pulse quickened.

But just as he crossed the threshold—

SLAM.

The door behind him shut on its own.

His breath hitched.

Slowly, he turned.

The door was sealed. Locked.

Someone—or something—had just cut off his escape.

His fingers twitched. His mind screamed at him to run, but there was nowhere to go except forward.

Back at the checkpoint, his gaze landed on the massive yellow door opposite his entry point. Thick, frayed ropes bound it shut, knotted tightly as if keeping something inside.

He didn’t like that thought.

Didn’t like it at all.

Taking a shaky breath, he lifted his Flare Hand and ignited a small flame, pressing it against the rope.



The fibers curled, blackened, then crumbled into ash.

The second the restraints snapped—

The doors groaned.

Then, slowly, they opened.

And inside…

His stomach twisted violently.



A mass grave.

Broken toys. Torn stuffing. Shattered plastic limbs. They stretched across the room as far as the eye could see—a sea of discarded, mangled bodies, all piled together in some grotesque monument of suffering.



The stench of decay, of something long forgotten, filled his lungs.

He swallowed back the bile rising in his throat.

This wasn’t just some disposal site.

This was a slaughterhouse.

And something told him…

He wasn’t alone.

The air was thick with dust and decay as he pushed forward through the endless piles of discarded toys. Each step crunched underfoot, the sound unnervingly wet at times.

He wasn’t sure if it was the remains of fabric, plastic, or something else entirely.

Then, amid the ruins, something glinted in the dim light.

A broken minecart sat half-buried in the wreckage, its rusted frame illuminated by the flickering glow of overhead lamps. Below it, resting on a dusty barrel, was a note.

He hesitated, then picked it up.

---

Journal Entry 1 – August 8th, 1994

Riley, Age 12

"First week at Playcare. I didn't know what to expect. There are a lot of kids here, but they feel... different. Most of them don’t remember their families. But I do. I remember everything I lost."

"The adults tell me I can write anything in this journal. They say it will help. So, here’s what’s important to me:"

What’s important to me:

The nice counselor who actually cares.

Trying to adjust, even though this isn’t home.

That my life matters. That my parents’ lives mattered, too.

Why? "Because I’m scared. Because anything can be taken away in an instant. And if nothing lasts... does anything really matter?"

---

A shiver ran down his spine.

Something about her words felt off. Like she already knew—even then—that something was wrong with this place.

A sudden burst of laughter echoed through the corridor.

Not joyful. Not innocent.

It was distorted. Gurgling. Broken.

His breath hitched.

Then, from the corner of his eye, something scuttled past. A small shape, darting between the debris. He barely caught a glimpse before it disappeared into the darkness.

Keep moving.

He pressed on, reaching a pile of bloody toys. A rusted barrel sat beside it, another note perched on top.



---

Journal Entry 2 – January 14th, 1995

"The other kids whisper about being ‘chosen.’ I don’t know what that means."

"At first, I thought they meant adoption, but... it doesn’t feel right."

What’s important to me:

Figuring out what it actually means to be ‘chosen.’

Understanding why the other kids seem excited about it.

Why? "Because if I could feel what they feel, maybe I wouldn’t be so afraid. Maybe I’d actually want it, too."

---

He swallowed hard, eyes scanning the shadows.

Riley had been curious. She had wanted to understand.

And whatever she found… it didn’t end well.

The corridor opened into a vast chamber, dominated by a massive metal gate.

PRISON was painted in bold, rusted letters above it.

As soon as he stepped forward, alarms blared.



A deafening screech rang out, and suddenly—spotlights burst to life, blinding him.

Then came the skittering.

Dozens of small, misshapen Huggys clawed their way out of the broken toy piles, their eyes hollow, their limbs twitching unnaturally.

Shit.

He sprinted to the right, hand flying to his Flare Gun.

The creatures lunged.



He fired.

A flare ignited in the air, bursting into an eerie red glow. As soon as it touched the ground, the creatures screeched and scattered, retreating into the darkness like roaches avoiding the light.

His heart pounded. He had only a few shots left.

If they swarmed him again…

But they didn’t.

Not because they feared him—but because something else was near.

Turning, he spotted another note pinned to a wooden pallet near the gate.



With shaking hands, he picked it up.

---

Journal Entry 3 – ????

"This wasn’t what I thought. What ANYONE thought. They took me somewhere. Not out… but under."

"They gave me a shot, and I went to sleep."

"I woke up to hands inside me. Not outside—inside. Digging. Pulling. Rearranging. My skin opened like petals, and I could feel everything. There was a snap. Red. So much red."

"When I screamed, no one listened. So I stopped."

What’s important to me:

Waking up.

Getting out.

Being ME again.

Why? "Because I started to like life again before this. And none of this should be real."

---

The words clawed at his mind, suffocating.

Something happened to her.

Something worse than death.

A sharp bang echoed behind him—he spun, eyes locking onto a sunken truck buried beneath the toy pile. A final note lay beneath its rusted frame.



---

Journal Entry 4

"The room started moving. I thought I was going somewhere. Then... everything turned upside down."

"I don’t know what happened, but it’s loud outside. Screaming. So much screaming."

"I waited until it stopped. Then, I stepped out."

"Bodies. Piles and piles of bodies. They all looked like me."

"I don’t understand. I don’t understand. I don’t understand."

"I found a man in a construction vehicle. I banged on the glass. He didn’t move."

"I think I’ll go back to my room. Maybe this will all make sense in the morning."

---

Silence.

The air in the prison felt different now.

As if something was listening.