He woke up in bed.

Same sheets. Same walls. Same bunk. Glenn was still across from him, breathing slow and steady. A warm yellow light glowed from the hallway.

The parchment was still in his pocket. Slightly damp. Still pulsing faintly with warmth.

And far away, almost too faint to notice—
There was the soft, rhythmic echo of a goat’s bleat.

Over the last few days, Star had been trying to map the facility in his head. He started watching how the workers moved—when they appeared, which doors they came through, how long they lingered before slipping back into the white labyrinth. The answer? Not often, and never for long.

Every door had a lock on it. Every one. Even closets. Even the bathrooms. Star had tested a few at odd hours. He hadn’t found a single one that opened without a keycode or swipe badge. The layout felt circular—almost maze-like. There were no windows, and the longer he was there, the more he was sure that whatever this place was, it wasn’t built to let them out.

Worse still: the workers were appearing less and less. Most of the day-to-day routines had become automated—meals dropped off at set times, lights dimming and rising on a precise clock, announcements playing over intercoms in a language no one had ever heard before. The few staff that did appear moved silently, their faces blank and wrong.

And then there was Miriam.

She’d been brought back to their shared room two days ago, pushed in quietly by two workers while everyone was in the rec area. No one had seen where she’d been taken. And now… she didn’t speak. Didn’t look at anyone. Just sat curled on her cot, her skin an unnatural shade of greenish-blue, like mold growing beneath glass. Her breathing had become slow and wet—like something was caught in her throat that refused to come out.

They were told nothing.

They sat in the cafeteria now. All five of them.
For some reason, they were no longer allowed to eat at staggered times. The intercom had buzzed yesterday morning with a flat, toneless command:

“All participants will now dine collectively.”

No explanation.

The food had grown worse. Not just bland—but rotten. The canned fruit tasted fermented. The bread was damp. The meat gave off a faint tang of ammonia.

Andrea sniffed at a pale gray patty on her tray, curled her lip, and slammed her spoon down.

“Oh, hell no,” she said loudly. “I am not eating this corpse meat.”

Star looked up from his untouched tray.

“Where are the workers?” Andrea asked the room, standing up. “I’m not kidding. I’m gonna get someone and they’re gonna bring out something real.”

She marched to the counter, where empty trays sat behind a scratched plexiglass divider. No one was there. The lights above the kitchen flickered listlessly.

“Hello?” she called. “Hey! Anyone? Your food is rotten.”

Nothing.

Andrea’s expression soured. With a grin more mischievous than angry, she picked up an unopened can of beans and hurled it over the counter. There was a metallic clunk, then a wet splat as it exploded behind the divider.

“There. Now they’ve got a mess,” she said proudly, strolling back to the table. “At least that’ll get someone’s attention.”

Star leaned forward, voice low. “Have you guys noticed the mold?”

Andrea flopped into her seat with a smirk. “What, around the baseboards?”

“Yeah,” Star said. “And the water stains. The way everything smells... off. Like decay. It’s not just the food. The walls are sweating.”

Glenn gave him a slow nod, chewing methodically. He hadn’t spoken yet.

Andrea shrugged. “So what? Old buildings mold. Especially ones built like bomb shelters.”

“I’m serious,” Star said, glancing around. “There’s something wrong here. It's in the walls. The food. Even the—”

“Here we go,” Yasir interrupted with a sigh, rubbing his temples. “Come on, guys. Please don’t start with this conspiracy crap again. We’re in a medical trial. It’s not the Hilton. They’re testing our limits. That’s the whole point.”

“Limits don’t include rot,” Star shot back.

“They might,” Yasir muttered.

Glenn made a small gesture with his spoon, pointing past the table.

The group turned.

Miriam sat at the far end of the cafeteria. Her tray was piled high with what the others had refused to eat—moldy bread, spoiled meat, soggy vegetables. She was devouring it. No utensils. Just her hands. Ripping the food apart, shoveling it in, eyes wide, lips wet and trembling.

Andrea’s mouth slowly fell open.

Yasir turned green.

They all sat frozen, watching as she tore a slice of raw-looking meat in half with her teeth. Her lips left a slimy smear on the food as she ate.

No one said a word for a long time.

Finally, Star broke the silence. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the parchment. It was warm. Still slightly damp from the first time he’d touched it. He unfolded it on the table.

“I found this a few nights ago,” he said quietly. “In a locked room. There were machines, rusted medical stuff... and this.”

They leaned in.

The writing was still unreadable—looping, alien symbols—but it hurt to look at. The lines seemed to pulse faintly under the cafeteria lights. A blotch of black inky liquid stained the edges.

At the bottom: the goat skull with vines growing from its eye sockets.

Glenn took the paper from Star. And for the first time since they arrived, his expression changed.

He recognized it.

Something cold settled in Star’s chest. “You know what that is.”

Glenn didn’t answer at first. His jaw tensed. His eyes flicked from the parchment to Miriam, who was now licking her fingers.

Andrea leaned closer. “Well?”

Glenn folded the parchment and slid it back toward Star.

“We’re not talking about this here.”

“Then when?” Star pressed. “Glenn. Please.”

“I’m not ready to tell you everything. But I’ll say this—we stick together. No one is ever alone. Not in the showers. Not in the halls. Not even the damn gym. Got it?”

Andrea raised an eyebrow. “Are you giving us a bedtime now, Dad?”

Glenn didn’t smile. “Yes.”

Yasir and Star both nodded, slowly. Andrea opened her mouth to argue again—but one glance at Miriam, who had now turned to sucking meat juice from a soaked napkin—and she closed it.

Glenn stood, tray in hand.

“We go to bed together. We wake up together. From now on,” he said. “No exceptions.”

Glenn hadn’t slept.

Star was sure of it.
Every time he blinked or turned over in his cot, he’d see Glenn, sitting upright on the bunk below, watching the others. Watching Miriam, especially. He never got close to her anymore. Just watched from across the room like she might sprout fangs at any moment.

And maybe she would.