Static hissed from the recorder as Leo Mercer's voice faded. Alan's fingers trembled against the cold metal. Idiot. The word echoed in his skull.
"So much rage… Was that what he became before the end?" Alan thought, before sighing heavily.
He reached behind the old tape machine and pulled out a dusty, leather-bound manual, hidden just beneath it. The book crackled softly as he opened it—its yellowed pages brittle, but intact. The first page detailed instructions in neat, typewritten print.
"Return to Level 4 immediately. Locate the downward stairwell. You are currently in the Main Hall. Nearby rooms include: Beverly Room (central hub), and Boiler Room (route to Level 6 – avoid due to hazardous temperatures)."
Alan's eyes narrowed at the underlined line: "Avoid all Entities. Evade, do not engage. Survival priority: High."
He flipped the page.
Two folded sheets fell from between the pages and fluttered to the floor. Alan crouched and picked them up. One was marked "ENTITY 4 – DEATHMOTH". A grotesque sketch of a giant moth, its wings spread wide, was printed at the top. The notes described it as deadly, particularly in numbers, and abundant on this level. The second document was worse:
"ENTITY 18 – THE BEAST OF LEVEL 5"A humanoid figure with an octopus-like head. Intelligent. Highly dangerous. Avoid at all costs. Zero human survivability on contact.
Alan clenched his jaw. "Great. A damn squid-faced genius-killer…"
He tucked the documents into his coat and continued through the Main Hall. He searched for the stairwell, retracing steps and checking every door. Nothing. The endless hotel corridors stretched out like a maze built to trap sanity.
Then he heard it—a faint buzzing.
The chandelier above him exploded in a storm of chitin and wings. Dozens of Deathmoths descended, their wings buzzing like chainsaws.
"Shit—!" Alan's body crackled with desperate electricity. The smaller moths fried mid-air, raining charred corpses.
But the queen survived.
One meter long, her carapace gleamed like oil-slicked armor. She lunged—Alan barely dodged, her stinger impaling the wallpaper where his neck had been.
*Too fast for something that big!*
He bolted down a servant's corridor, her wings shredding the air behind him. At the last second, he whirled—
THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.
His axe bit deep into her abdomen. Ichor gushed, reeking of rotting honey. The queen twitched, then stilled.
"Ugh, why do bugs always smell worse dead?" Alan gagged, wiping his blade on a velvet curtain.
"Hey! Over here!"
Alan turned. A figure waved from a doorway—tall, impeccably dressed, his head a writhing mass of squid tentacles.
The Beast. The manual's 0% survival warning flashed in Alan's mind.
"I'm human, I swear!" The Beast adjusted his cuffs. "Just... cursed. Call me The Gentleman! Let me help!"
Alan's grip tightened on his axe. "What year were you born?"
"Hmm... 1958?"
"Where did America drop the atomic bomb in WWII?"
The Beast's tentacles curled in thought. "Ah! Olympus!"
Alan's fist met squid-flesh. "Dumbass."
The Beast didn't bleed.
Alan's kicks, his axe swings—all glanced off like rain against stone. Even his electricity only made The Beast laugh, a sound like bubbling tar.
"Ten years since I last fought a human," The Beast mused, catching Alan's axe mid-swing. "You're all so... spicy."
CRACK.
The axe shattered in The Beast's grip.
"Ayo, chill!" He kicked Alan into a wall, plaster crumbling. "A blue rune user? Cute."
Alan spat blood. *This isn't fighting. This is a cat playing with food.*
The Beast vanished—then reappeared behind Alan, his foot slamming between Alan's shoulder blades.
"Cuttlefish-chameleon motherfucker—!"* Alan hurled axe shards at The Beast's eyes.
A scream. A distraction.
Alan ran.
Alan's back hit the carpeted floor as an iron grip dragged him by the collar into a nearby linen closet. The door clicked shut just as The Beast's laughter echoed down the hall.
"That," hissed a voice in the dark, "was the single dumbest display of suicidal bravado I've witnessed in ten years. Congratulations - you've achieved primate-level intelligence."
A match flared, revealing a faceling in a tailored black suit and mirrored sunglasses, casually balancing a laptop case between his knees. The flickering light glinted off his featureless face as he lit a cigarette that somehow stayed suspended where a mouth should be.
Alan coughed on the smoke. "Well thanks for the compliment," he grumbled, wiping blood from his split lip. "So who are you? The Backrooms' version of Men in Black?"
The faceling exhaled a perfect smoke ring. "H.D.F Investigations Division. Currently tracking missing persons cases in this sector. And you just punched our prime suspect." He tilted his head. "Bravo."
"Got a name, Mr. Fed?"
"Not one you need to know, meatbag."
Alan's eye twitched. "Seriously?"
The faceling sighed dramatically. "Fine. Call me Phi. Short for Φ - the golden ratio. Because unlike you, I represent perfect efficiency."
Alan groaned. "Of course you'd pick a math term. Let me guess - you're the guy who corrects people's grammar in hell."
Phi adjusted his sunglasses. "Grammar maintains civilization. Your reckless assault on a Class-18 Entity nearly ended it. For you." He tapped his laptop. "The Beast has been blocking all exit paths to Level 4. Clever trick - he's extending his camouflage to alter doorways."
Alan rummaged in his Distorting Pocket, pulling out a medkit. "So how do we kill it?"
"We don't." Phi didn't look up from his typing. "Survival probability: zero percent. Your little lightning trick might fry moths, but The Beast? He'll use your spine as a backscratcher."
The antiseptic stung as Alan dressed his wounds. "What if we trap him?"
Phi's fingers paused. "...Marginally less suicidal. Current survival odds: three percent."
"I'll take those odds." Alan leaned forward. "You know this level's layout. Any areas with environmental hazards we could weaponize?"
Phi's cigarette burned brighter as he inhaled. "There's the Boiler Room. Two hundred degree almond water pipes. Active Deathmoth nesting grounds. Main power generators. Oh, and it's The Beast's favorite napping spot." He smirked. "Perfect vacation destination."
Alan's eyes lit up. "Wait if ..." He began whispering urgently.
As the plan unfolded, Phi's rigid posture actually shifted - first in disbelief, then reluctant admiration. "Huh. That... might actually work." He snapped the laptop shut. "The last part though - that's a one-way trip if we time it wrong."
"Then we won't time it wrong." Alan extended a hand. "Partners?"
Phi looked at the offered hand like it might be diseased. "Temporary alliance. And you're buying the drinks if we survive." He stood, brushing imaginary dust off his suit. "Let's go, dumbass."
As they slipped into the hallway, the distant sound of shattering porcelain echoed through the walls - The Beast was hunting. And he always played with his food before eating.