The labyrinth didn't need walls or bars to cage its prey. Its very existence was mockery—an invisible veil, brushed once, and you were shoved into illusions with no way back.
Ethan and the ragged survivors had barely entered when the ground cracked beneath them—not stone, but the logic of reality itself.
In an instant, they plummeted into countless versions of themselves.
"Good news," Ethan gritted out, voice dripping with misplaced humor, "we finally have extra lives. Bad news? They're all busy killing each other."
The first to fall was Iron-Tooth, the grizzled rebel.The labyrinth summoned his greatest fear: an office desk. Piled with timesheets, performance reviews, overtime slips, and pink slips.
"No! I'd rather be eaten by nightmares than work a nine-to-five!" he howled.
The illusion swallowed him, his body turning transparent, morphing into a digital folder—promptly dragged into the recycle bin.
Ethan twitched an eye. "Well… call it a promotion, I guess."
Next was Thread. She fancied herself a cold-blooded killer, until the labyrinth offered her worst nightmare: a cozy family dinner.
Her phantom parents beamed."Eat, child. Stop thinking about murder all the time."
She shook violently."You… you're dead. I killed you myself—"
The illusionary parents stood, handed her a cleaver."Then do what you love."
She hacked herself into pieces at the dinner table, neatly stacked like salted pork.
Ethan's lips curled into a ghastly smile. "At least she died with family support."
The labyrinth pressed harder, intoxicated by their fear.
The Mad Monk trembled. His illusion: a colossal Buddha, serene-faced, sprouting a hundred arms, each gripping a bill.
"Have you paid the offering? The incense fee? The property tax?"
"No! You're a fraud, Buddha!" the monk screamed.
The statue swatted him flat, his body folding into a bloody ledger cover.
Ethan exhaled dryly. "So that's Infinite Life in Buddhism—endless bills, zero lifespan."
As one after another fell, the labyrinth grew giddy. Faceless visages bulged on the walls, mouths cackling. Ethan's gut tightened. He knew it was his turn.
His illusion formed—not monster, not death—but something far worse.
Himself.The future Ethan.
A robed version of him, eyes hollow, lips curved in a cruel smile, clutching the Nightmare Dossier.
The phantom whispered:"You're not the savior. You're just the keyhole. I am the key. All your struggles were just rehearsal for me."
Ethan froze, cold gnawing his bones. The ground softened, threatening to swallow him into that future.
He longed for a heroic retort, but what came out was a cracked laugh:"Figures. My greatest fear is… myself? Cheap twist."
The phantom reached for him.
But then his last friend barreled forward, gripping Ethan's shoulders."You're not cheap! You're the most expensive bastard in the universe! So live—so my death won't be meaningless!"
The words were both salvation and curse. Ethan was yanked free, but his friend was dragged into the storm of shattered futures, gone without a trace.
The labyrinth's laughter ebbed like a tide, whispering in every ear:
"The trial has only begun."
Ethan wiped blood from his mouth, baring a crooked grin."Fantastic. At least I learned Hell's reality shows beat human TV hands down."