The hands of darkness closed in on Luna, wrapping around her like a living shroud, binding her in place. Number 8 staggered to her feet, wiping the blood from her lips, her breathing labored but triumphant. "It's over," she muttered, her voice dripping with vindication as she watched the ominous mass of hands engulf her foe.
But the oppressive gloom of the hall grew darker still. A chill seeped into the air, unnatural and biting. The sensation clawed at Number 8's spine, sending a shiver through her as unease began to creep in. This wasn't right. This wasn't her Temple of the Dead.
"What—what is this?" she hissed, turning in circles as she felt the atmosphere twist into something far more sinister. From the depths of the void, howls echoed—low, guttural, and unrelenting. Each one grew louder, closer, and more menacing.
"No," she cursed under her breath, her confident demeanor fracturing. "She isn't dead!"
