Star was jolted awake by the sharp pressure of Yasir’s hand on his shoulder.

"Star—get up. Something’s wrong."

His eyes opened to a gray haze of grogginess, his body heavy, limbs sticky with sweat. The room buzzed with tension. Andrea was at the door again, screaming, her fists pounding hard enough to bruise bone. Her voice cracked, raw and shrill, echoing off the concrete walls.

“HELLO?! SOMEBODY FUCKING ANSWER US!”

Across the room, in the far corner, Glenn crouched low, hunched over something in his lap. His back was toward them, shoulders rigid, posture cagey—like a raccoon with a secret.

Star’s stomach twisted painfully. He was starving. His mouth was dry, his hands shaking. Whatever time it was, it was far past their usual meal.

“We haven’t heard a single staffer outside since last night,” Yasir said. “Not a tray drop. Not a footstep. Nothing.”

Andrea let out another string of curses, her voice breaking. She slammed both palms into the door with a hollow thud. “You can’t keep us in here forever, you sick freaks!”

Star pushed himself up and staggered toward Glenn. “What are you doing?” he asked, already feeling the heat rise behind his eyes. Glenn tensed. Too slow to hide it.

That’s when Star saw it.

A phone. Clunky, black, rugged—military-grade looking. His breath hitched. A phone. The possibility of contacting Bee punched through his haze like a lightning bolt. Before he could stop himself, he lunged for it.

Glenn pulled back easily, standing his ground with the steadiness of someone much stronger. “Don’t,” he growled.

“What the hell, Glenn?” Star shouted, voice rising in pitch. “You’ve had a phone this whole time and didn’t tell anyone?”

“You think I wasn’t trying to protect everyone?” Glenn snapped. “It hasn’t worked in days. No bars. Just emergency mode and that same goddamn message on loop.”

“You still should’ve said something!”

Andrea was still yelling at the door. Yasir paced, running his hands through his hair. The air grew hotter, louder, tighter, filled with shouting voices clashing like knives in a drawer.

“We need to get out!” Yasir barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Arguing won’t get us anywhere!”

“I could’ve called Bee!” Star screamed, pointing at the phone. “You have no idea what that means!”

Glenn’s eyes narrowed. “And if using it got you flagged, or worse? You think this place doesn’t monitor shit?”

The volume kept climbing. The claustrophobic walls seemed to close in as frustration boiled over.

And then—

A hum.

Soft. Low. Childlike.

Everyone froze.

The sound came from the cot in the far corner. Miriam. She sat upright, her eyes wide and glassy, head gently tilting side to side. Her lips barely moved as she hummed, a thin blue-green liquid seeping from the corners of her mouth, pooling darkly at the hollow of her throat.

Her voice was fragile, melodic—not entirely human.

“The flesh shall blister, bend, and break,
For fertile gifts you bid us take.”

Star stumbled backward, bumping into Yasir.

“Open the fucking door,” he whispered.

They moved fast. Star and Yasir slammed into the door together, over and over. The metal groaned. Andrea abandoned her screaming, grabbed Glenn’s phone, and began smashing it against the door handle, sparks flying from the impact.

Behind them, Miriam swayed, still humming.

“It stains our tongues, it blinds our eyes—
But through the dark, we split and rise.”

Each word sent a chill down Star’s spine, sinking like hooks into his marrow.

On the fourth hit, something cracked. Andrea screamed triumphantly.

The door shuddered, then opened with a heavy creak—but only a crack. Something on the other side was blocking it.

Through the narrow gap, a putrid smell rushed in, wet and fungal. The hallway beyond was no longer sterile and white. It was caked in a thick, heaving mold, green and black and slick with moisture. The walls pulsed subtly, as if breathing.

Yasir gagged. “Oh my god.”

Andrea staggered back, the ruined phone hanging limply in her hand. The once-shining walls were now soft, veins of mold crawling in spirals across every surface. The air was thick, humid—sweet and rancid at once, like rotting fruit left to boil in the sun.

Star’s eyes locked with Miriam’s.

She was still humming.

Still smiling.

Still oozing that foul green slim.

“We need to get that door fully open,” Star said, his voice distant, eyes locked on the twisted mold coating the hallway outside.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Andrea snapped, still struggling to shove the door open further with her shoulder.

Yasir squinted out through the crack, recoiling slightly. “Do we even want to go out there? Look at the fucking walls, man.” The air outside was thick with spores. A syrupy, cloying sweetness hung in the air—sickly, almost pleasant. It made Star’s stomach turn.

Andrea scoffed. “Oh, so what, we’re just gonna stay here? No food, no water, no goddamn bathroom?”

“The enemy you know is better than the one you don’t,” Yasir muttered, falling back on some buried memory of authority. But Star wasn’t listening. He already knew—deep down, carved into his marrow—that no help was coming.

He turned to tell the others, but froze.

Miriam was standing.