Shadows of the Past

Into the Abyss

"Remind me why I need a gun?" Thomas asked, his brow furrowed as he looked at the firearm in his hand.

Cillian met his gaze with a sigh, clearly holding back the frustration of explaining it again. "I've already told you why. Now just take it, please," he said, his voice carrying a trace of impatience.

Thomas glanced down at the gun, the weight of it feeling foreign in his grip. He'd never been the type to carry one, and now, in the eerie silence of Silent Hill, it felt wrong—but necessary.

The men were getting ready to go out on a search for Emma and James. Together, they had marked a few key locations on the map, including some of the buildings Cillian had previously crossed out with red X's. It wasn't safe, but desperate times called for desperate measures. That's why they both carried guns now.

"Are you ready?" Cillian asked, adjusting his gear with calm precision.

Thomas looked at him, then down at the gun in his hand again. His heart was pounding, and doubt gnawed at him, but he nodded. "I think so," he muttered, gripping the gun tighter.

Cillian gave him a brief, encouraging nod before heading towards the door.

Once inside, the oppressive atmosphere of Silent Hill engulfed them. The thick, suffocating fog curled through the broken windows and seemed to swallow the world around them, making it hard to tell where the ground ended and the mist began. As they closed the door behind them, a hollow echo followed, adding to the eerie silence.

Thomas stayed close to Cillian, every step heavy with tension. He wasn't about to let himself get lost again, not in this place. The memory of wandering alone, hearing things that couldn't be real, still haunted him. He kept his eyes on Cillian's back, trusting the man's calm confidence even though every fiber of his being was on edge.

They entered the first building they'd marked on the map—an old, decaying apartment complex. The air inside was thick with the scent of mildew and rot, and the walls, once painted in muted colors, were peeling away in long strips, revealing the crumbling structure beneath. The dim light barely cut through the fog that had seeped into the building, making everything appear washed-out and ghostly.

Cillian led the way, moving carefully, his footsteps echoing through the narrow hallway. Each door they passed was either hanging off its hinges or had been completely smashed in. Thomas followed closely, his grip tightening on the gun, his pulse quickening with every creak of the floorboards.

They moved deeper into the building, checking each room they passed, their senses heightened for any sign of movement or noise. The apartment complex was like a maze, twisting and turning, and with each new corridor they entered, it felt as though the building itself was watching them.

After an exhaustive search, the men found nothing of real use—only remnants of lives long forgotten. They passed by rooms littered with scattered belongings: faded newspapers, broken furniture, and dusty, crooked portraits still clinging to the walls. Each picture captured a different face, families and individuals who had once called this place home, now staring back at them in eerie silence.

Thomas paused in front of one portrait, gently brushing off the thick layer of dust. It was a black-and-white photo of a young girl, her delicate face framed by dark hair, her wide eyes hauntingly expressive. They seemed to reach out, calling to him in a silent plea, as if they held secrets only he could unlock. For a moment, he felt hypnotized, unable to tear his gaze away, as though she was drawing him deeper into the mystery of this place.