Part 1: Hollow Boards, Hidden Walls
The floorboard near the far end of the hallway had always creaked twice.
Once when you stepped on it,
and once when you stepped off.
Today, it didn't creak at all.
Yuuya paused, his foot hovering mid-step. He lowered it again, gently. Silence. No groan of old nails. No hollow knock.
He bent down.
The wood here was worn smooth, unlike the rest of the hallway, which was splintered with age. His grandfather had walked this path daily, always pausing here. That memory came back suddenly — a detail too specific to be a coincidence.
His fingers traced the edge of the floorboard.
There. A faint notch.
Yuuya pressed it.
A soft click responded — mechanical, but ancient. Dust puffed up from the corner wall, and something behind the panel shifted. Not loud. But real.
He stood.
The section of wall at the end of the corridor… wasn't quite flush. It tilted inward, like a false door.
He pressed his palm against it.
The wood was cold — colder than the hallway air. Like the space behind it hadn't breathed in years. It gave way under the pressure, swinging open not like a door, but like a mouth without a jaw. The air behind it smelled wrong — not dead, not moldy.
Just... wrong.
Inside was a narrow stairwell, descending into dark.
There was no light switch.
Yuuya did not fetch a flashlight.
He stood for ten full seconds, staring into the dark, letting his eyes adjust.
Then he stepped inside.
The stairs didn't creak. They were made of stone, carved smooth. The walls were earthen — packed dirt and rock, not brick, not concrete. He descended slowly, one hand grazing the wall.
Twelve steps.
A landing.
Then a door.
It was not wooden. It wasn't anything he recognized.
Black, matte, without seams. In the center, a single symbol glowed faintly — a spiral intersected by jagged lines. Not language. Not decoration. More like a wound that had healed wrong.
As he stood before it, the symbol pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Then stilled.
Yuuya didn't flinch.
He raised a hand and placed it on the door.
The surface was warm now. Warmer than it should've been. A heartbeat thudded behind it — not his own. Not a sound, but a pressure in his palm. Rhythmic. Slow. Deep.
He pushed.
It didn't resist.
Beyond was a corridor of stone and silence.
Carved torches lined the walls, each one lighting up in sequence as he passed — no flame, just a dull, steady glow like glowing coals sealed behind glass. He followed them.
He didn't wonder where he was. Not yet.
Wonder came later.
For now, he walked.
At the end of the corridor was a final chamber.
A wide room with a domed ceiling, filled with empty bookshelves and shattered glass containers. In the center stood a pedestal — atop it, an old iron-framed mirror, cracked down the center, but intact enough to reflect.
He stepped forward.
And for the first time, he hesitated.
Because the mirror didn't show him.
It showed… something else.