Several minutes passed before anyone spoke.

They just sat there, backs pressed to what were once cold stone walls, the putrid green-black bile soaking through every layer of clothing, skin, thought. It clung to them—viscous, warm, almost alive. It stank of decay and old milk, of curdled blood and newborn breath. And somehow, it didn’t just sit on them—it seeped in, as if it were burrowing toward their bones.

None of them had the strength to move at first. The floor was wet and reeking, but the idea of caring about the filth had long passed. There was no "clean" left in this place. There was only this—this unnatural, flesh-slick ruin they were trapped in.

“We need a plan,” Yasir said eventually, voice quiet but flat. “Just aimlessly going through this house of horrors isn’t helping us.”

No one argued, but no one responded either. They all knew the truth: there was no plan. No path. Every hallway twisted. Every stairwell either rotted away or led somewhere impossibly wrong. Every potential exit was pristine, sealed, reinforced—untouched by the rot.

The rot allowed decay. It encouraged suffering. But it also enforced the borders of their cage. It had a will. It wanted them here.

“I don’t think we’re getting out,” Star said. Quietly. Honestly.

The words hung there, brittle and final.

Glenn exhaled hard, rubbing his eyes with bile-slick fingers. “I refuse to give up,” he muttered, his voice low and stubborn—an old man’s growl of defiance. But even he didn’t sound like he believed it anymore. Not fully.

Andrea stood suddenly, her body trembling with more adrenaline than resolve. “Why haven’t we tried burning the damn things?” she demanded. “I’m sick of running. Let’s fight back!”

She punctuated her words with a furious punch to the wall. Her fist landed with a wet smack, sinking slightly into the spongy, rotted drywall. She recoiled instantly, curling her lip in disgust and wiping her hand against her shirt, only spreading the filth further. Her skin glistened dark green.

“Ugh—God, it’s everywhere.”

Yasir groaned and pulled himself upright too. “Fuck it,” he said. “We’re gonna die anyway. Might as well burn this place down with us.” His smile was thin, crooked, desperate—hope masquerading as gallows humor.

Andrea gave a shaky nod. The two of them stood there, side by side now, looking down at Star and Glenn. Waiting. Not pressuring—but waiting all the same.

Star looked up at them. The bile was in his eyes, his lashes, his mouth. But he stood.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

Glenn groaned softly as he pulled himself to his feet, his joints cracking from the cold and the tension. “We’ll need something to start the blaze,” he muttered. “When I first came in here, I had a lighter and some butane canisters. Don't ask why. If we can find our way back to the front… I bet they’re still there.”

It wasn’t a good plan.

It wasn’t even much of a plan.

But it was something. A purpose. A spark.

And in this place, even hope could be dangerous—but it was better than despair.

The four of them started walking. Not toward salvation. Not even toward survival.

But toward fire.