The next hallway was narrower than the others, the walls pressing in with every step.
Miles and Kayla moved quickly, but not recklessly. Every door, every corner could be a knife waiting to slip between their ribs.
The metal floor changed beneath their boots — from rough, rusted plating to something smoother. Cleaner.
Miles slowed, scanning.
The hallway was changing again.
The walls were no longer concrete and steel — they were lined with paper. Thousands upon thousands of scraps, all taped or stapled in chaotic layers.
Kayla reached out toward a piece of it.
"Wait," Miles snapped, grabbing her wrist.
He looked closer.
It wasn't just paper.
It was case files.
Police reports. Crime scene photos.
Some blacked out with thick bars of redacted text, others marked in heavy black ink: UNSOLVED. MISSING. CLOSED.
Kayla's breath hitched. "Are these... yours?"
Miles said nothing. His throat was tight.
He didn't need to read them to know the answer.
This was his life.
The cases he hadn't cracked.
The victims he hadn't saved.
Every failure, pinned up like trophies for someone else's amusement.
The room seemed to breathe around him, heavy with accusation.
The voice returned, softer this time:
"Welcome home, Detective Rennick."
Miles clenched his fists.
He wanted to burn this whole damn place to the ground.
Instead, he forced himself forward.
Each file he passed whispered at him, memory twisting into nightmare:
A boy drowned in his own bathtub while Miles chased the wrong suspect.
A woman disappeared between two security cameras; her face still haunted his dreams.
A family slaughtered while he wasted time arguing jurisdiction with another agency.
Kayla stayed close but silent. She seemed to understand this wasn't her pain to touch.
At the end of the hallway, a new door waited.
No handle.
Just a panel.
And on the panel, in sharp black text:
RULE #9: OWN YOUR FAILURE. OR IT OWNS YOU.
Miles' gut twisted.
The speaker purred:
"Confess, Rennick. One name. One sin. Speak it aloud... or rot here, under the weight of your guilt."
The walls trembled — as if the whole corridor was alive, hungering for his surrender.
Kayla touched his arm, tentative. "Miles...?"
He shook his head sharply. "Don't."
He turned back to the panel.
He didn't need to think about it.
The name had been waiting on his tongue for years.
He spoke, voice rough as gravel:
"Hannah Grieves."
The hallway shuddered.
The paper on the walls began to peel away, layer by layer, the files curling into ashes and blowing into the darkness.
The panel blinked once.
The door slid open.
Miles stood there for a long second, breathing hard.
Kayla watched him carefully. "Who was she?"
Miles didn't look at her.
"Someone I failed," he said. Then added, softer: "A kid."
He didn't explain further. He didn't have to.
The grief in his voice was a whole story by itself.
Kayla didn't push.
They stepped through the door into the next room.
And for once, there were no traps waiting.
Just a simple, empty space.
White walls. No cameras. No voice.
Miles frowned. "Too easy."
Then the floor beneath them lurched.
Kayla screamed, grabbing onto him as the ground tilted violently, pitching them both into a sudden, black abyss.
Miles wrapped his arms around her, shielding her body with his own as they fell — tumbling end over end into the unknown.
---
Meanwhile...
Behind a wall of glass, the Watcher smiled.
The assistant shifted nervously. "He's doing better than expected."
The Watcher chuckled, low and dark. "Not better. Just... differently. Every choice leaves a scar. He'll bleed soon enough."
He leaned closer to the monitors, tapping one bony finger against Miles' frozen, falling image.
"Let's see if he can survive... himself."
---
Miles' Timer: 43:52
(But as always, the numbers meant nothing. Time was just another lie.)