Skye stared at the key in her hand.
It was colder than before. Heavier, somehow. Its jagged teeth glinted under the hallway's flickering light, as though it knew what it was about to unlock.
She took a deep breath and turned toward the stairwell. The elevator was silent—dead, almost—as if the building itself didn't want her to take the easy route anymore.
Fine. She didn't want easy. Easy got her here.
The stairwell groaned when she pushed the door open. Paint peeled from the walls like skin off an old wound. Her boots echoed with each step, a slow march into madness.
Floor one… two… three… She paused. Something wasn't right.
There was no floor four.
There never had been.
Skye blinked. No, that couldn't be right. She lived here. She knew this building. And yet—there it was. A gap in the stairwell numbering. From 3, the next floor read "5" in rusted metal numbers.
What kind of place forgets a floor?
She reached the fifth and paused. Her ring buzzed.
"Almost there. But not quite. The door you need isn't real."
Her stomach sank.
Not real? She looked around. The hallway was the same as always—same gray paint, same dead silence. And yet, now it felt… fabricated. Like a prop in a horror film.
She walked down the corridor, past doors that didn't feel like doors at all. Their knobs wouldn't turn. Their keyholes were painted on. She knocked on one. Hollow.
And then, she saw it.
At the end of the hallway, where the wall should have been, there was… something.
It looked like a door, sort of. Faint. Flickering. Like a mirage painted on the air. A trick of the eye—until she blinked, and it stayed.
Skye stepped closer. The walls seemed to breathe around it, pulsing ever so slightly. Her footsteps slowed. That wasn't just a mirage. It was a hidden door.
Not physically hidden.
Spiritually hidden.
The key in her hand warmed.
She swallowed, pressed the key into the space where a lock should have been—
—and the illusion shattered.
The hallway around her rippled, like someone had thrown a stone into the fabric of reality. The flickering door solidified, and with a whisper of old air, it opened.
Inside was a room that didn't belong in a city apartment complex. It looked more like a library that had aged and gone mad. Tall, crooked bookshelves towered to a ceiling lost in shadows. Papers drifted in the air like lazy snowflakes.
In the center stood a table with a rotary phone—black, ancient, and ringing.
Riiiiing. Riiiiing.
Skye's instincts screamed no, but her legs moved anyway. She picked up the receiver.
"Hello?" she whispered.
There was silence.
Then—
"You're waking up, Skye. Good. But don't trust your memories. Not all of them are yours."
Her breath hitched. "Who are you?"
The voice chuckled.
"Let's just say I'm the curator of this little exhibit. And I've been waiting for you. You're not here by accident. You were chosen."
"Chosen? For what?"
"To remember."
Click.
The line went dead. The phone shattered into dust in her hands.
She stumbled back, heart hammering. On the table where the phone had been now lay a photograph. She picked it up carefully, her breath catching in her throat.
It was her. Standing in front of this exact room. Smiling. But behind her stood a man with no face, tall and shrouded in a dark coat, hand resting on her shoulder.
Skye dropped the photo. Her ring buzzed again.
"Welcome to Round Two."