DEADLOCK [On Hold]

Chapter III (Continuation)

The friends surged forward, pushing through the darkened corridor as the lights flickered ominously above them. Each step felt heavier than the last, the pressure of time ticking away in the back of their minds.

The corridor was narrow, lined with rusty metal pipes that groaned as they passed. Shadows danced on the walls, distorting with each flicker of the lights. Hurried footsteps echoed around them—other Darkins navigating the building, their focus set on survival. Each step could bring them closer to safety or danger. But in Deadlock, nowhere was truly safe.

Claire's breath came in short, ragged gasps beneath her mask, the air growing stifling. She struggled to keep up with Klein's fast pace, her eyes darting nervously to the doors they passed. "Ilang floors pa kailangan natin akyatin? Jesus Christ, this game's tiring."

"Four pa," Shiloh answered, her voice calm despite the tension. "But we don't know what's waiting on each one."

A low creak echoed down the hallway, followed by a soft whoosh. Achilles glanced back, eyes wide. "'Yan... Iyan ba 'yong dust?"

"Move!" Klein urged, quickening his pace. They burst through another door, their feet pounding against the floor as they ran up a flight of stairs. Normally, Achilles would have cracked a joke to ease the tension, but now he was too focused on keeping his legs moving, too busy trying to escape the danger creeping just two steps behind them.

Reaching the next floor, the air grew heavier, the staleness clinging to their skin. The scent of rust and decay lingered, and the flickering lights cast long, unsettling shadows across the cracked walls.

They paused, catching their breath. Achilles hunched over, panting, his eyes darting around. "Okay, muntikan na tayo... How the hell is the dust rising that fast?"

Klein wiped sweat from his brow and turned to Shiloh, who had been tracking time in her head. "I think we have less than two minutes before it reaches this floor. We can't slow down. Kilos lang, we can't waste time."

Hans shook his head, anxiety clear on his face. "What about traps? We haven't seen any doors that could be hiding them, have we?"

Klein's gaze scanned the unmarked, chipped doors lining the hallway. He cautiously opened one, peering inside. It was empty—just another dusty, abandoned space. "Stay away from the doors unless we know for sure. Let's be careful," he warned, pushing the door shut again.

Suddenly, a loud clang reverberated through the hallway, followed by the creak of a door swinging open. The six friends turned, breaths hitching in their throats. From a side room, a Darkin stumbled out.

The figure—a man in a torn, bloodied shirt—swayed unsteadily, his mask barely clinging to his face. His eyes were wide with terror, his breaths ragged. Before anyone could react, his legs buckled, and he collapsed to the ground.

The sight sent a jolt of fear through the group.

"He's out of air," Claire whispered, her voice trembling.

Marcus took a hesitant step forward, his hand twitching at his side. "Should we help him?"

Klein's jaw tightened, his gaze cold and resolute. "We can't. If we stop now, we lose our chance to make it out." His words were firm, but the weight of leaving someone behind twisted in their stomachs. They understood, even if it felt wrong.

Achilles stared at the lifeless body, his usual grin replaced with disbelief. He swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. "This isn't just some game... It's a damn slaughterhouse."

His hands shook as he clenched his fists, trying to regain his composure. "I didn't sign up for this," he muttered, more to himself than the others. None of them had.