Chapter 9: Echoes of The Hallway

Wan stood in the middle of the endless hallway, his breaths shallow, every muscle in his body straining to hold on. The memory of the kitten's fall into the chasm replayed relentlessly in his mind, as if the moment had been etched into his brain. The Architect's words echoed over and over: "Every failure stays with you."

He wanted to believe the worst was behind him, but the suffocating silence in the corridor told him otherwise. This level wasn't finished with him yet.

The hallway stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with rows of lockers that stood slightly ajar, darkness spilling from their depths. Shadows shifted along the cracked tiles, moving like they had minds of their own, always at the edge of Wan's vision. It felt like something was watching him, just out of sight, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Wan's legs felt heavy, exhaustion pulling at him like lead weights tied to his ankles, but he forced himself forward. He didn't have a choice. Stopping meant surrender. And the Architect had made it clear—there were no shortcuts here.

After what felt like an eternity, he found himself standing in front of his old locker. His heart stuttered. The door was open, just like before, and inside it, a mirror gleamed faintly in the dim light.

He stared at the warped reflection in the glass, dread curling in his stomach. It was himself, but younger—maybe eleven or twelve, cradling something fragile in his hands. A kitten.

Wan's pulse quickened as the memory unfolded before him, more vivid than ever. The reflection sat cross-legged, holding the trembling creature, his expression flickering between curiosity and unease. Wan knew what was coming. He couldn't stop it.

The younger version of himself tilted his head, studying the kitten with a strange, detached focus. Then, with a sudden, deliberate motion, he snapped the kitten's neck.

Wan's stomach lurched. He stumbled back from the mirror, bile rising in his throat. "No…" he whispered, clutching his chest. "That's not— I didn't—"

But the reflection didn't change. It told the truth, the awful truth he had buried deep inside for years. The truth that he enjoyed it, even for a moment. He had held power over something helpless, and in that brief instant, it had felt good.

The kitten's lifeless body lay in the reflection's hands, limp and broken. And then—it moved.

Wan's heart jumped into his throat as the kitten's small, fragile body twisted unnaturally, bones cracking as it dragged itself upright. Its head lolled at an unnatural angle, and its fur, matted with blood, clung to its tiny frame.

The kitten looked up at him through the mirror, its glassy eyes locking onto his. And then it spoke.

"Why did you hurt me?"

The words were soft, almost childlike, but they struck Wan like a dagger to the heart. He staggered backward, shaking his head in disbelief. "I— I didn't mean to—"

The kitten took a step closer, its small, broken body dragging across the floor with agonizing slowness. "Why did you do it?" it whispered again, its voice cracking with pain. "What did I do wrong?"

Wan's throat tightened, every muscle in his body screaming to run, to get away from this conversation, but his legs refused to move. He wanted to explain himself, to apologize, to make the words come—but nothing did. He opened his mouth, but no sound escaped.

The kitten stopped in front of him, tilting its head with an eerie curiosity. "Why weren't we enough?"

Wan's heart pounded in his chest. The kitten's words dug into him like claws, pulling at every regret, every self-loathing thought he'd tried to bury. What could he say? That he was just a kid? That he hadn't known any better? Lies. All lies.

His silence stretched between them like a heavy chain.

The kitten blinked slowly. Its dead, glassy eyes reflected something profoundly human—not anger, but sorrow. Disappointment.

Then, without warning, it lunged.

Wan barely had time to react before the kitten's tiny, broken body latched onto his arm, its teeth sinking deep into his flesh. Pain exploded through him, sharp and immediate, as the kitten bit down with an unnatural force. Wan cried out, stumbling backward, but the creature's grip was relentless.

He could feel its claws digging into his skin, its tiny jaws locked around his forearm like a vice. The wound burned, blood oozing from the puncture marks, but what terrified Wan the most was the sensation of the bite spreading deeper, as if the kitten's teeth weren't just tearing at his body but at something inside him.

He fell to the ground, gasping for breath, clutching his arm in agony. The kitten didn't let go. It gnawed at his soul, biting through layers of guilt and regret that he hadn't even realized were there.

And then, just as suddenly as it had latched on, the kitten vanished. The pain in his arm lingered, hot and throbbing, but there was nothing there—no creature, no blood.

Only the Architect's voice remained, curling through the air like smoke.

"Hesitation is a choice."

Wan shivered as the words slithered into his mind, cold and absolute.

"Every moment you linger, every second you wait—those are choices too. And they carry weight."

Wan clutched his arm, though the skin was smooth and unmarked. The bite was gone, but the pain stayed. He could still feel the kitten's teeth buried deep within him, gnawing at his conscience, dragging every buried regret into the open.

"There are no bystanders here," the Architect whispered, its voice a low, cruel hum. "Even silence has consequences."

Wan sat on the cold floor, panting, his body trembling from exhaustion. He had done nothing. And yet, even doing nothing had caused harm.

He pressed his hands to his face, trying to steady his breathing, but the weight of the Architect's words settled over him like a shroud. There was no right answer. There was no escaping the consequences—not here. Not ever.

Somewhere in the distance, the sound of laughter echoed faintly—soft, familiar, and mocking. It wound through the hallway, twisting through the cracks in the walls, until it filled the silence like a bitter chorus.

Wan knew that laugh. It was his own.

The Architect's voice returned, low and amused. "This is only the beginning."