The door bursts open, slamming against the wall.
I stand just behind it, staring at the floor, which is dark and empty like an endless black abyss. Hesitating, I take a careful step forward. My gaze falls on a whoopee cushion lying there, perfectly camouflaged with the cabin floor. When I look up, I see a shotgun rigged above the door frame, connected to the whoopee cushion by a network of wires.
A bead of sweat trickles down my forehead, landing on the wooden floor with a faint creak. "Just like you scoped it out, Spera," I mutter, trying to bury my nerves. Hakuna matata... Steeling myself, I maneuver around the trap, slipping through the door.
Every step on the old floorboards creaks under my weight, and I feel like the whole thing could collapse at any second. The walls are painted pitch black, and I can barely see anything ahead, let alone any hidden traps. My heart pounds, my mind screaming, Stay careful...
Suddenly, I step on something that shatters beneath my foot. Panic surges, and I bolt forward—only to feel a sharp sting in my leg. Glass! I drop and roll, then feel a piercing pain across my back. Nails! Crouching, I scan my surroundings in a frenzy, left and right.
Sweat pours down my face as panic seeps in. Damn it, I should have left! What if these traps are laced with poison or rusted? I'm going to die here. My breathing grows rapid and erratic until a soft blue light seems to warm my heart. My mother's voice echoes in my mind: "Son... have hope..."
I take a deep breath, then another. Absorb what is useful, discard what is not, add what is uniquely your own. I focus, gathering my strength.
Calmly, I inspect my injuries. No nausea or serious pain beyond the cuts. I brush over my shirt, finding a nail lodged in it. I touch the tip and taste it for any sign of poison. Nothing. With renewed focus, I tear off my shirt, carefully wrapping it around the sharp glass and nails until it forms a crude, protective bag.
One deep breath. "Let's do this."
I charge down the hallway, swinging the makeshift bag in front of me to shield myself. Traps spring to life around me—glass, nails, mousetraps, even a gunshot—but my crude shield protects me from the worst of it. I push on until the hall gives way to a staircase I didn't see. I tumble down, my body hitting each step with a painful slam.
SLAM!
BANG!
When I open my eyes, I'm sprawled at the bottom. "Did I black out?" I glance back up the stairs, where I see the faint glow of flames flickering on the walls. The fire's spreading fast. I scramble to my feet and start running.