The next doorway wasn't a door at all — it was a mouth.
Jagged stone teeth framed a tunnel leading into pure blackness, pulsing gently, like something breathing just beneath the skin of the building.
Miles hesitated.
Kayla stood behind him, silent, staring.
Above the entrance, in letters carved deep enough to still bleed, read:
RULE #12: ONLY ONE MAY PASS.
A low mechanical whine made the floor shudder under their boots, and the mouth twitched wider — an invitation.
Miles flicked his flashlight into the opening.
The beam barely cut five feet before vanishing into nothing.
No walls, no ceiling. Just a corridor that swallowed light like a throat.
He turned to Kayla.
Her eyes were wide, her face pinched pale.
"We're not splitting up," he said.
Her voice was small, almost childlike.
"But the rule—"
"I don't give a damn about their rules."
For a moment, neither moved.
Then the floor behind them groaned.
Chunks of concrete dropped away, revealing spikes glistening in the pit below.
Move forward, or die.
Choice made for them.
Miles grabbed Kayla's hand, pulling her into the mouth before it could close.
Inside, the air was dense and wet. It tasted like rust and regret.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the walls shifted.
A sickening grind, stone scraping against stone.
Miles yanked Kayla toward the right corridor — but a slab of wall slammed down between them.
He shouted her name.
No answer.
The maze came alive.
Corridors split, reshaped, shifted direction under his feet.
Everywhere he turned, the paths forked and moved like veins.
He sprinted left — no good. Dead end.
Backtracked — another dead end.
The walls oozed closer, squeezing the tunnels thinner.
Miles slammed a fist against the nearest wall.
Solid. Cold. Unfeeling.
"Kayla!" he roared.
No answer.
Instead, the ceiling speakers crackled — and a voice, syrupy and mocking, whispered:
"ONLY ONE MAY PASS, Detective. Choose wisely."
Miles snarled under his breath.
No.
He wasn't leaving her behind.
He moved forward, gun drawn, flashlight in his off-hand, sweeping the corridors for any sign of her.
For a moment, he thought he saw her — a flash of blonde hair around a corner.
He ran after it —
—only to find a mirror.
His own reflection stared back at him.
Older.
Broken.
Bleeding from a dozen invisible wounds.
He smashed the mirror with the butt of his gun.
Glass rained down, and behind it — nothing but another branching hallway.
The maze wasn't just trying to separate them.
It was trying to break them.
The overhead lights flickered, buzzed, then cut out completely.
Miles was left in absolute darkness.
Breathing heavy.
Heartbeat hammering in his ears.
And in the dark, he heard her voice again —
faint, scared, calling his name:
"Miles... please... help me..."
He spun, gun raised.
Too many tunnels.
Too many choices.
Which one was real?
Which voice was real?
He picked one at random and ran into the dark, determined to find her — or die trying.