I moved slowly, each step measured and deliberate. My breath sounded loud in the oppressive silence of the room, mingling with the faint echo of my footsteps on the slick floor. They had to be chasing me by now—I was certain of it. Their shadows were probably creeping through the labyrinth even as I pressed forward, and I needed to put as much distance between us as possible before they caught up.
Every step felt like a gamble, as if one wrong move could set off something far worse. Mirrors surrounded me, reflecting my image from every angle, creating an endless illusion that left me disoriented. The reflections followed my every motion, mirroring each small gesture. But… something was off. Some of them moved a fraction of a second behind me, while others seemed to watch, their gazes unnervingly fixed, as though they were more than mere reflections.
I quickened my pace, though my legs were growing heavier with every step. My eyes darted around, searching desperately for anything—a sign, a clue, a way out of this maddening maze. But the room defied logic. Every turn I made led me back to the same endless rows of mirrors, as if the labyrinth itself was alive and intent on keeping me trapped.
Glancing over my shoulder, I strained to catch any hint of pursuit. Nothing. No footsteps, no shadows, only the infinite reflections of myself staring back. Yet I couldn't shake the feeling they were out there, somewhere beyond my sight. Panic clawed at my chest, driving me to move faster.
Minutes passed, or perhaps hours—time had lost all meaning in this oppressive place. My body began to rebel. My legs trembled, my breaths came in ragged gasps, and my head spun with every motion. I stumbled to a stop, my hands braced on my knees as I tried to steady my racing heart. The air in this room offered no relief—thick and cold, it pressed down on my lungs, making every inhale feel like a battle.
It was no surprise, really. After being hung upside down and running non-stop, even surviving this far felt like a miracle. "Just a moment," I muttered to myself, a desperate attempt to calm the whirlwind of thoughts in my head. "A short rest won't kill me."
I straightened up, scanning my surroundings for any signs of danger. Nothing. The stillness was almost mocking. With hesitant steps, I leaned back against one of the mirrors behind me. Its surface was ice-cold, sending a shiver through my body. For a fleeting moment, the chill offered a strange kind of comfort, a reprieve from the suffocating air.
However, something strange happened. The surface of the glass wasn't entirely solid as I'd thought. When my back pressed against it, there was a peculiar sensation—like slipping through the surface of water. Before I could process what was happening, I felt my body sink into it, pulled by an invisible force.
The world around me shifted in an instant, like a screen cutting to a new scene. And I fell into a completely different place.
Scorching heat hit me mercilessly, like being roasted alive under an sun. A raging windstorm howled, battering my body with brutal force. Moving was impossible; even opening my eyes felt unbearable—not just because of the storm but because the sunlight seemed to close in, relentless and blinding.
Here, mercy did not exist. The air quivered, creating shimmering mirages that played tricks on my vision. The searing heat was so intense that it forced every molecule to dance wildly, conjuring storms that churned fine sand on the desert's surface. The wind lifted grains of sand, transforming them into tiny bullets traveling at high speed, sharp enough to slice skin and shred clothing.
I flinched as one gust lashed against my arms and face. The sting was like a thousand tiny knives slicing into me without reprieve. This desert seemed endless, a sea of sand stretching as far as the eye could see. There was no place to hide, no safe haven. Blood oozed from the countless small cuts that covered my skin, mixing with sweat and making the pain even worse, sharp and unrelenting.
"Aaaargh!" I groaned in agony, trying to shield my face with my hands, but it only turned them into bloodied shields. Pain coursed from my fingertips to my very bones.
I staggered backward on trembling limbs, my half-closed eyes searching desperately for something—anything—the mirror I had entered through. Each breath felt like swallowing fire. Crawling slowly, sand clung to my bloodied skin, and finally, my feet touched the cold surface of glass.
In an instant, I was back in the labyrinth of mirrors. My body slammed onto the floor with a thud. Every wound throbbed, like tiny fires burning across my skin. Gasping for air, the room's cooler air was a relief, but the pain remained, sharp and relentless.
"Damn it… what the hell was that…" I muttered between labored breaths. Slowly, I forced myself to stand, my body protesting every movement. As I rose, my eyes locked onto one of the mirrors nearby. My reflection stared back, but something was terribly wrong.
The reflection stood tall, flames slowly crawling up from my right hand. These weren't ordinary flames; they burned with wild, hungry energy, licking hungrily across the mirrored image of my body. Before I could react, the reflection ignited completely, consumed by fire.
I recoiled, stepping back in shock. But then, without warning, a searing heat began creeping up from my left hand.
"No… no, this can't be happening!" I cried, eyes wide as the realization struck. The flames I'd seen in the mirror now burned on my actual body. They spread rapidly, devouring every inch of me without mercy. Panicking, I slapped at my skin, desperate to extinguish the flames, but it was useless. The fire only grew, stronger and more ferocious.
Desperation gripped me as I searched for the mirror I'd entered through. My breaths were ragged, each second stretching into eternity. My right hand touched the mirror again, and once more, I was pulled into its depths.
I was back in the desert. The flames that had consumed me vanished abruptly, like candles snuffed out by the wind. But in their place, the sandstorm returned with a vengeance, ripping fresh wounds across my battered body. Without thinking, I reached for the mirror again, yanking myself out of the hellish desert and back into the mirrored labyrinth.
My body crashed onto the floor with bone-jarring force, leaving me sprawled. The fire that had nearly devoured me was gone, but the fresh wounds it left burned with unbearable pain. Clutching my chest, I felt a deep gash still trickling blood. My clothes were in tatters, barely clinging to my body.
Struggling to my feet despite the searing pain coursing through me like electric shocks, I spat bitterly, "What kind of carnival from hell is this…" My voice trembled, more to myself than anyone else.
Glancing around at the mirrors surrounding me, I knew these were no ordinary reflections. With trembling steps, I resolved never to touch the mirror again.
Even a fleeting glance at my reflection was too much. The memory of what had happened before made my skin crawl with unease.
I started walking again, my steps unsteady, leaving smears of blood on the mirrored floor beneath me. Each step felt heavier than the last, the searing pain from the cuts on my body gnawing away at my strength. But I knew stopping meant giving up, and surrender wasn't an option. Not here. Not now.
My pace was agonizingly slow—too slow. Every time I paused, I heard something: a faint sound, almost like an echo of my own footsteps, but not quite right. It was too mismatched to be mine. I glanced over my shoulder occasionally, checking for anything behind me, but all I saw was my own reflection, fractured and infinite.
I tried to brush the thought away and pressed on.
The air shifted abruptly, carrying something new. A smell. A cloyingly sweet aroma, like caramel bubbling in a pan, rich and fresh. It struck my senses like a blow, the sweetness so overpowering it made my stomach churn. I stopped mid-step, frowning as I tried to pinpoint its source.
Turning cautiously, I scanned the area. What I saw made my blood run cold. From one of the mirrors, something began to ooze. A viscous yellow liquid, thick and sticky like molten caramel, started to slide down the glass in slow, unnatural movements—as if it were alive.
I froze, my breath caught in my throat as I stared at the bizarre sight. Within seconds, the liquid began to shift and stretch, writhing unnaturally until it formed long, coiling tendrils. They moved with frightening speed, snaking along the blood trail I'd left behind with terrifying precision. The sickly sweet smell grew stronger, choking the air around me.
My pulse thundered in my ears as I staggered back, struggling to catch my breath. "What now?!" I shouted, my voice trembling with panic.
I turned and ran, my only thought to get as far away from those monstrous tendrils as I could. But my body, battered and exhausted, was working against me. Each step felt like trying to move through a rushing river, every muscle screaming for relief. My breath came in ragged gasps, sweat mingling with the blood trickling from my wounds. I had to keep going. Stopping wasn't an option. Not now.
The tendrils moved soundlessly, but their speed was horrifying. Within seconds, one of them reached me, wrapping around my ankle. The sensation was sickening: cold, sticky, and impossibly strong. I stumbled, my body lurching backward as it yanked me off my feet.
"No! Let me go!" I screamed, clawing at the slick floor in a futile attempt to anchor myself. My nails scraped against the floor surface, leaving streaks of blood, but nothing could stop the relentless pull. The tendril dragged me like a ragdoll, my body jerking and jolting with every tug.
I twisted, thrashing desperately in its grip, but the more I struggled, the tighter it coiled. It dragged me toward the edge of the room, where a mirror shimmered ominously, the caramel-like substance pooling at its base. My heart pounded as the realization hit me. This was the end.
In one final act of desperation, I flung out a hand, grasping at another nearby mirror. The moment my palm made contact, the world around me shifted violently, spinning out of control.
My body was tightly bound to a massive circular board, my arms and legs splayed wide like a ragdoll crudely stitched to a wooden frame. I tried to move, but the ropes were cinched too tight, digging painfully into my skin.
Harsh lights blazed overhead, their sharp, blinding glare illuminating the center of this place where I was trapped, while darkness devoured the rest of the space. Beyond the circle of light, rows of seats were arranged neatly—and they weren't empty.
The audience... they weren't human.
Faceless mannequins sat stiffly, dressed in casual summer dresses or formal suits complete with ties. They appeared as though they were enjoying a pleasant afternoon show, unmoving, silent, staring straight ahead. At least, that's how it felt—even though they had no eyes.
The room was utterly silent. No breaths, no whispers. Just a stillness heavier than the air, as though the world itself had come to a halt.
I turned my head to the right, searching desperately for something—anything—to make sense of this madness. There, I spotted a faceless mannequin woman. Her body looked disturbingly lifelike, her slender hands gripping a large lever, which she slowly turned, rotating the board I was tied to with deliberate, methodical movements.
"Let me go!" I screamed, thrashing against the bindings. But the ropes were too strong. I struggled, pulling at my wrists with all my might, but it was futile. Frustration began to replace fear, clawing at the edges of my resolve.
Desperation forced me to still. I slowed my breathing, dragging in deep, deliberate breaths as my eyes strained against the darkness. Something moved in the shadows—not drifting, but purposeful, deliberate. My mind screamed it was floating, but the movements were too precise, too calculated. I tensed, every nerve buzzing as I fought to discern the figure. It wasn't a blur; it was a shape—someone. A person, not a ghost.
Unseen hands hurled the first knife from the darkness, too fast to track. The cold steel embedded itself into the wood, just inches from my cheek, sending vibrations through the board. The metallic clang echoed sharply in the suffocating silence, its resonance cutting through the heavy air like a blade. Above me, a massive scoreboard flickered to life, illuminating a single, ominous number: "1."
Before I could fully comprehend what was unfolding, a figure materialized from the shadows—a clown. Its face was obscured by a heart-shaped mask with edges so sharp they could easily double as weapons. The mask bore an exaggerated, blood-red grin, grotesquely cheerful and entirely out of place. Around its neck, a ruffled collar adorned with pointed, heart-shaped spikes enhanced its menacing appearance. Clutched in its hands were a set of small knives, each one glinting menacingly under the harsh, unforgiving lights.
The clown moved with theatrical flair, strutting forward like an actor basking in the applause of a captivated audience. Its motions were unnaturally smooth, almost mechanical, like a marionette guided by invisible strings. It stopped abruptly, tilting its head slightly as if observing me—or pretending to.
Without missing a beat, it flung a second knife. The blade sliced through the air, embedding itself into the wood beside me with a deep, resonant "thuk." The metallic clang echoed again, and the scoreboard above clicked to "2."
The third knife flew faster than the others. I barely saw it before searing pain tore through my thigh. A scream ripped from my throat as my body tensed involuntarily. Blood flowed freely from the wound, dripping onto the mirrored floor below. The blade's precision was unnerving, as though the clown had perfected its aim through countless, cruel rehearsals.
The scoreboard's chime was louder this time, the glowing number now reading "52."
And then, the audience cheered.
Their applause wasn't human. It was distorted, mechanical, like the warped playback of an old cassette tape set to maximum volume. Yet the sound was enough to make me feel even smaller, more insignificant, on this twisted stage.
"Aaargh!" I groaned, my body trembling violently from the agony. But the clown didn't care. It struck a triumphant pose, one hand on its hip while the other held a gleaming knife aloft, basking in the grotesque adulation of its faceless audience. It relished the moment, as if it had just claimed the highest honor in some macabre competition.
I didn't need an explanation. The message was clear. This performance was designed to kill me. Each knife that found its mark increased the score, and I could only imagine what would happen if the number reached a certain limit.
From the corner of my eye, I saw it raise another knife. The smile etched onto its mask seemed to grow wider under the harsh glare of the lights. But this time, I didn't blink.