#bobby x reader

You hum weakly, letting your head rest back on the pillows as the smell of weed and Bobby’s cologne filled your head. Your eyes stray to the fan overhead, the blades pass by slowly as you count the seconds while Bobby slowly kisses his way up your legs, easing them over his shoulders.

“You with me?” He pauses above your covered cunt, taking a slow drag from the blunt before parting his lips and letting the hot smoke breeze over the wet fabric of your panties, making you jolt.

“Mm- Y-yeah,” you stutter over the fuzziness in your brain that comes from the pleasant buzz of cannabis. Bobby’s hand grasps yours, lifting the camera with a practiced ease.

“Keep me in focus.” The words are murmured into the skin below your belly button, igniting that familiar fire in your navel and causing the hairs on your neck to stand up.

At your nod, Bobby takes another hit of the blunt before leaning down. His lips meet the puffy folds of your cunt and with a slow exhale, the smoke glazes over your panties again. It’s punctuated by a slow lick that spreads the wet patch on your panties.

His nose nudges your clit and he chuckles at the pleasured noise that drips from your lips. The soft buzz of the camera lets him know your zooming in, soaking in the heated, fuzzy look in his eyes and the way he’s sitting open-mouthed against your pussy.

The smell of your arousal is much stronger when he’s this close. And it mixes with the smell of weed in a way that Bobby salivates. His impatience starts bleeding through his high mind and finally, Bobby hooks a finger through the crotch of your panties, tugging them to the side to reveal your dripping folds.

It’s a pretty sight, the puff of your folds, the glistening slick of arousal, the choked sound you make as the cold air hits your exposed pussy. He almost wishes he had the camcorder with him so he could immortalize this forever.

Bobby takes one more slow drag from the blunt, eyes meeting yours over the camera. With a nip to the meat of your inner thigh, Bobby slips the blunt into your hand, right in the small gap between your index and middle finger. Ash falls off the edge of it, scattering over your skin.

Your wince turns into a choked moan when Bobby’s mouth finally greets your pussy. His tongue is heavy with saliva and heat as he greedily tastes you for all your worth. He swaps between suckling at your clit and slipping his tongue between your folds. It’s a vicious cycle that leaves you feeling floaty and loose.

You legs give weak twitches when Bobby’s tongue glazes over your clit, tightening around his head to bring him closer when he pulls away to breathe. The camcorder shakes in your hands and Bobby notices.

He pinches your thigh as he withdraws from you slightly. “C’mon baby, keep the camera still. Like I showed you.” He licks his lips, groaning at the sweet taste of you as he watches you readjust the camera. When he’s satisfied with the angle, he lays back down, kissing your clit sweetly like he was rewarding you.

“Fuck-” You moan as he slips his tongue back into your folds, his calloused thumb doing figure eights over your clit as his other hand massages your thigh.

The dual stimulation continues and he gets lost in it, eyes shutting as he continues to make out with your pussy. At a certain point your hips start grinding against his face and hand, desperately chasing that high that you’ve been needing since Bobby proposed this idea.

His thumb leaves your clit, his index and middle finger accompanying his tongue in your aching walls. Bobby effectively swapped places with his mouth and fingers, lapping at your clit as his fingers leisurely take you apart from the inside out. Every stroke and curl makes your breath hitch and whine as you do your best to keep the camcorder stable.

“Bobby- I’m gonna-” You keen, lips parting for a stilted moan as his fingers speed up. The strokes turn quicker, his saliva drips down your clit and spills into your hole.

He mumbles something against your overstimulated bundle of nerves, tongue flattening against it as he curls his fingers against that spongy spot in your velvety walls. He murmurs vague pieces of praise that leaves your feet curling and back arching as you cum with a loud whine.

Bobby withdraws his fingers, licking them clean before he leans back in to lick you clean. Sweat drips down your back and your thighs are sticky with cum and spit. You vaguely register Bobby’s warm hands taking the camcorder from you, his spit soaked fingers snatching the blunt from you.

He places the blunt in his lips, freeing his hand to massage your ass slowly. Bringing you down from your high.

Blinking quickly, your flushed cheeks are hot to the touch and your eyes are fogged from the weed and now that pretty post orgasmic glaze. You register Bobby more clearly now, his blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. He’s sat up, your thighs resting at his hips. He cradles the camera in his other hand but he watches you patiently.

When a bit more clarity hits your eyes, he smiles, taking the blunt out of his mouth and leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your lips. The taste of your cum sits on his tongue as he moans against you, smoke filling both of your mouths as he hips twitching as he grinds his dick against your pussy. The cloth drags on your overstimulated clit and you whine agaisnt Bobby’s lips as he pulls away.

The store sat on the edge of town, isolated and quiet, with rows of furniture stretching beneath fluorescent lights and entire afternoons passing without a single customer. Most days, it was just you, Bobby, and eventually Kat.

At first, you didn't think much of her.

She was friendly enough, easy to talk to, and she fit into the store surprisingly quickly. You never saw her as competition because competition implied there had been something to compete for in the first place.

Until one evening after work.

The parking lot was nearly empty, glowing under the orange glow of streetlights. The parking lot was nearly empty except for a handful of employee vehicles scattered beneath flickering streetlights. You were halfway to your car when movement caught your attention from the cars next to yours.

That's when you saw them.

Bobby's back was pressed against the side of Kat's car.

Kat was standing on her toes, and their mouths were pressed together.

For a moment, your brain simply refused to process what you were seeing. As if sensing another presence, they quickly pulled away from eachother.

Bobby pulled away first, and his eyes found yours immediately. The look on his face made it worse—not surprise, not embarrassment. It was something almost like....guilt.

Kat followed his gaze and immediately spotted you standing there.

Her face lit up.

"We're sorry," she said before either of you could speak. "We just made it official! I was gonna tell you tomorrow."

The smile she wore was bright and genuine. You looked at her, then at Bobby standing beside her, and forced a smile onto your own face.

"That's great," you heard yourself say.

You weren't sure how convincing it sounded.

You mumbled something else before turning and heading for your car as quickly as you could without outright running. Your vision blurred for a second once you got inside, but you blinked hard until the feeling passed. You felt stupid for even crying in the first place, but you couldn't help it. All those years in which you convinced yourself that your feelings were being reciprocated sat heavy on your chest.

--

After that, everything changed.

Not visibly. Not in any way that anybody else would notice. But the familiarity that had existed between you and Bobby for years suddenly felt gone.

You found yourself hyperaware of everything. The way Kat smiled whenever he walked into a room, how their shoulders brushed together when they talked and laughed with eachother.

Neither of them ever overdid it. If anything, they seemed careful around you, and that somehow made it worse. Every small act of consideration strangely felt like a confirmation that they knew, and maybe they did. Maybe Bobby had always known. That thought made you feel even more miserable.

Weeks turned into months. The conversations between you and Bobby gradually dulled into professional necessities.

"Could you check if we still have that dining set in stock?"

"Clark wants those boxes moved."

"Can you cover the register for a minute?"

Nothing more.

Every now and then, you would catch him looking at you. It was never for long, and you always looked away first.

-

When you heard they had moved in together, it felt like a breaking point.

One afternoon, you finally filled out your two weeks notice and headed toward Clark's office before either of them could find out.

Unfortunately, Bobby rounded a corner before you got there. His eyes immediately dropped to the paper in your hands, and his expression hardened.

"You're quitting?" the question came out sharper than you expected.

You shrugged.

"Dunno. It just seems crowded here. Barely any customers come in these days, and Clark can hardly afford to pay all three of us as it is."

The excuse sounded ridiculous the second it left your mouth. Judging by Bobby's face, he knew it too.

Something flickered behind his eyes. "You've been here for years."

"Yeah."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

He looked like he wanted to say something else.

Instead, he stepped aside and let you pass.

-

You missed the next two shifts after that, and when you finally returned, Clark seemed like an entirely different person.

Excited. Restless. Obsessed, even.

The moment you walked through the doors, he started rambling about something he'd discovered beneath the store.

"You guys need to see this," he kept saying. "Seriously, all three of you."

When the four of you eventually made your way downstairs, you immediately noticed the tension between Bobby and Kat.

They weren't standing together, and they weren't speaking much either. At one point, your gaze dropped to their wrists. The matching string bracelets they'd worn for months were gone.

You frowned. Before you could think too hard about what that meant, Clark, who noticed the two of them acting so stiff, suddenly turned towards them.

"Look, guys, whatever you're going through can wait a couple more hours, okay?" he said. "I really need your heads in this."

The two exchanged a look but said nothing.

Then Clark pointed toward the nearest wall, where a rectangle made out of tape caught your eye. The size of it carried resemblance to one of a door's.

"Watch this," Clark said.

Before any of you could stop him, he stepped forward and walked straight through the wall.

The basement fell silent. You, Bobby, and Kat stood frozen.

"What the hell?" Kat whispered.

A second later, Clark's muffled voice echoed from somewhere beyond the wall.

"Guys! Guys, come on, you have to see this!"

Bobby let out an incredulous laugh. "No way."

He immediately approached the wall, excitement overtaking whatever sour mood he had been in earlier.

"Clark?" he called.

"Yeah! I'm serious, get in here!"

"You're messing with us." you said, finally gaining your senses back. You stared suspiciously at the shape on the wall.

"I'm not! Come on!" came Clark's response.

Bobby looked over his shoulder at the two of you girls, grinning widely "There's gotta be a hidden room or something."

"You don't know that," Kat said nervously.

"Well, I'm gonna find out."

Before either of you could stop him, Bobby reached out and pressed his hand against the taped rectangle. His arm disappeared through it.

His grin widened. "Holy shit."

Then he stepped through, leaving you and Kat alone together in the basement. You looked over at her, noticing the worried expression on her face. When you locked eyes, a mutual agreement settled between you, and you both stepped through the wall after the boys.

-

Clark's excited rambling followed the three of you through the impossible hallways beyond the wall, his voice bouncing across yellowed wallpaper and stained carpeting as he hurried ahead. Every few steps he would glance over his shoulder with the same manic grin, asking if any of you understood what this place meant, only to continue talking before anyone could answer.

You stayed near the back of the group. Kat walked a little ahead of you.

Bobby remained closest to Clark, his curiosity getting the best of him as he recorded every step of the way with the camera he had in his hands.

The deeper you ventured, the more disturbed you felt. The hallways seemed to stretch on forever. Every turn revealed another identical corridor ahead, and yet Clark moved through this yellow maze with confidence, as though he knew exactly where he was going.

Eventually, the four of you entered yet another yellow room, which seemed no different that any other room—well, except for the square-shaped hole in the wall and a bed in the corner.

Clark pulled out a length of rope, which made your stomach tighten.

"No" you said, but Clark ignored you completely.

"We need to see what's down there"

"We absolutely do not need to see what's down there." you insisted.

Clark turned towards Kat and Bobby "We came all this way."

Kat shook her head "Clark."

"Relax" he said, then tossed one end of the rope towards Bobby.

Bobby caught it automatically, and Clark's grin widened.

"Oh, absolutely not." Kat said.

Bobby laughed "What?"

"You're not going down there." you insisted, almost like a plead.

"Why not?"

"Because it's insane!" you said, exasperated.

Bobby looked between all three of you. Then he shrugged.

"Honestly, she's got a point."

Relief immediately flooded through you.

Only for Bobby to continue. "But now I kind of want to know what's down there."

"Oh my God." you dragged a hand across your face.

Bobby's laugh echoed through the room. For a moment, everything almost felt normal again.

Then the rope was around his waist, and he was standing at the edge. Slowly, the three of you lowered him into the darkness.

"How's it look?" Clark shouted.

A few seconds later Bobby's answer drifted upward. "Still creepy!"

Your hands tightened around the rope. The knot in your stomach had only gotten worse.

"Can you see anything?" Clark shouted. Bobby began describing the room, with the clothes laying around and the smell.

Then, a pause followed.

"Wait." The tension in his voice immediately caught your attention.

"What?" Kat called.

Another pause. The rope shifted.

"Bobby?" you called. Nobody answered.

You looked toward Clark. "We have to pull him up." you demanded, already tugging at the rope.

"What do you see?" Clark yelled.

The response came back immediately. "Pull me up."

Your stomach dropped.

"Pull me up!" The fear in Bobby's voice hit all of you at once."NOW! "

Without another word, all three of you started hauling the rope upward. Your hands burned against the rope. Kat stumbled beside you.

Then Bobby's hands appeared over the edge. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, his grip tight enough it hurt, but you didn't even mind.

His terrified eyes found yours "Get me out!" He shouted

"We got you!" Clark yelled as he grabbed hold of his shirt.

Together, the three of you dragged him almost completely out. His body was over the edge when the rope suddenly snapped tight again. The force of it nearly yanked you off your feet.

"What the hell—" Bobby began saying, but he never got to finish the sentence.

Something on the other end pulled hard, the rope whipped violently through the room and Bobby's entire body jerked backward, towards the hole.

His fingers nearly slipped from your wrist.

"No!" Kat screamed.

You immediately dropped to your knees and grabbed his forearm with both hands. Clark lunged forward as well, seizing Bobby's other arm while Kat grabbed onto the back of his shirt.

His hand tightened painfully around yours. The terror on his face was unlike anything you'd ever seen.

"Pull me up!"

"We're trying!" you screamed back.

You could feel him trembling. "Don't let go!" he shouted.

Another violent jerk ran through the rope. Clark lost his footing, and the sudden shift nearly ripped Bobby completely from your grasp.

For one horrible second, your eyes locked. You watched pure fear spread across his face.

The next pull was stronger than all the others combined. Your grip finally broke, and his hand slipped from yours.

Then he was gone.

A scream tore from your throat as Bobby disappeared back into the darkness. His own scream echoed through the tunnel, growing fainter as he was dragged deeper below.

You knew that sound would haunt you for the rest of your life.

Before any of you had the time to register what had just unfolded, a loud crack echoed through the room. You looked back just in time to see the heavy bed Clark had anchored the rope to begin sliding across the floor.

"Oh my God," Kat whispered.

"Run!" Clark shouted, but it was already too late.

The bed slammed into all three of you, pushing you through the hole. The world flipped upside down as the tunnel swallowed you. After what felt like an eternity of tumbling, you finally hit the ground. The impact was so hard the air got knocked out of your lungs.

For several seconds, you could do nothing except lie there gasping. Then Bobby screamed again, and the sound made you immediately push yourself upright.

"Bobby!"

No answer. Just another scream, only further away now.

You stumbled toward the sound, ignoring the pain shooting through your legs. That's when you saw it, the streak of blood on the carpet, and a torn piece of clothing—Bobby's—laying there.

Your hands shook as you snatched it up. Then, you heard the sound of something moving. Something large, and fast. Kat screamed, and you whipped your head to see her scrambling to her feet.

"Run!" somebody shouted.

You didn't argue. The three of you bolted through the darkness—and that was the last time you saw them.

---

At first, every day felt impossible.

You wandered the endless yellow halls with shaking hands and aching legs, jumping at every distant sound and every shadow that seemed to move. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed endlessly, creating a constant hum that slowly began driving you insane.

Sleep came rarely, and when it did, it was never for long.

You learned to wedge yourself into cramped rooms and hidden corners where you could see every possible entrance. Even then, every creak or distant noise was enough to jolt you awake with your heart hammering against your ribs.

For the first few days, you searched constantly for someone, anyone.

You followed every distant voice and every set of footprints you could find, convincing yourself over and over that he had to be alive. Then you would remember the look on his face as his fingers slipped from yours, or the sound of him screaming as something dragged him into the darkness.

You would remember the blood, and hope would become a little harder to hold onto.

The piece of Bobby's shirt never left your possession. You kept it folded carefully inside your pocket during the day and clutched it in your hands whenever you stopped moving. The fabric had become one of the only reminders that your life before this place had actually existed.

The first time you truly allowed yourself to grieve was after nearly a week.

You had found an empty office hidden behind a maze of corridors and locked yourself inside for the night. The room was small and dusty, but it had a door that closed and that was enough.

You sat on the floor with your knees pulled against your chest. The torn piece of fabric rested in your lap. For a long time, you simply stared at it.

Then the tears came. The kind that left your chest aching and your breathing uneven. You cried for Bobby. For the years spent dancing around feelings neither of you had been brave enough to acknowledge. You cried because there had always been this stubborn part of you that believed there would be more time. More opportunities to tell him. Now all you had left was a torn piece of fabric and a memory of his hand slipping from yours.

After that night, you stopped looking for him—at least that's what you told yourself.

In reality, your eyes still searched every hallway you entered. Your ears still perked up at every distant voice, hoping you'd recognize his own. Some foolish part of you never fully gave up.

Weeks passed, or maybe only days. Time had become meaningless here.

You had started learning the rhythm of the place. Certain hallways appeared safer than others. Certain sounds meant danger. Certain rooms were worth remembering.

-

You were moving through one such hallway when you heard footsteps. Immediate panic surged through you. They were too heavy, too deliberate.

Then suddenly someone grabbed you from behind. A startled cry escaped you as your body was slammed violently into the nearest wall. Pain exploded through your back.

Before you could recover, an arm pressed firmly against your throat, pinning you in place. Pure instinct took over, and you kicked and struggled, trying desperately to free yourself.

Your vision blurred from panic, then finally focused.

The person holding you froze, and you froze too. For a moment, neither of you moved. Because the person staring back at you was Bobby.

His hair was longer now, messier. There were fresh cuts scattered across his face and neck, and dark circles lingered beneath his eyes.

He looked terrible. He looked alive.

The realization hit you so hard it almost hurt.

"Bobby." The name escaped you as little more than a breath.

His eyes widened. The arm against your throat immediately disappeared. You stumbled forward, coughing slightly.

For a second, he simply stared. Then his gaze darted over your face, searching desperately for something. His hand lifted hesitantly, cautiously, like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast. His fingers brushed against your hair, pushing a few tangled strands away from your face.

The touch was so familiar it made your chest ache.

Then suddenly you were moving. The distance between you disappeared in an instant as you practically threw yourself at him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, and you buried your face against his shoulder.

For a brief moment, he froze. Then his arms slowly locked around you, so tight it nearly hurt. A shaky breath escaped him as his chin came to rest on top of your head. For the first time in a long time, you felt safe. At ease.

Then Bobby suddenly stiffened. The change was immediate, and you felt it before you saw it. His arms loosened, then he pulled away slightly.

Confusion creased his brow.

"No."

You looked up.

"What's wrong?"

His expression changed, relief giving way to uncertainty. Doubt. Bobby took a step back, enough to create space between you.

"Hold on."

Your stomach dropped. "Bobby?"

"How do I know it's really you?"

The question hit like a slap, and you stared. His eyes searched your face frantically.

"This place has done this before. I've seen someone who looked exactly like you."

You were beyond confused. Bobby shook his head.

"I thought it was you. I was completely sure it was you." He let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Followed it for half a day."

His jaw tightened. "Then it tried to bite me."

You stared at him, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. Then you slowly shook your head.

"No, Bobby, you have to believe me." Your voice almost cracked. You stepped closer. "It's really me."

His gaze flickered. You could see him desperately wanting to believe you.

"I thought... I thought you were dead." you whispered.

Something painful flashed across his face, and he looked away.

"I almost was. I barely got away. Don't even know how I did it, really."

His gaze returned to yours, and he let out a sigh, dragging his hand over his face. "I wish I never went through that fucking wall." he admitted quietly.

You found yourself nodding. "Yeah. Me too."

The two of you fell silent for a moment, listening to the distant hum of fluorescent lights somewhere beyond the hall.

Eventually, you glanced back at him.

"Why did you,then?" you asked.

Bobby frowned slightly. "What?"

"Go through the wall. You were the first one to volunteer. You practically jumped at the chance."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it disappeared immediately.

"I didn't think..." He paused, searching for the right words. "I didn't think it'd be this."

His gaze drifted down the hallway.

"I thought maybe we'd find another room. Some weird hidden basement. Something Clark could show off and obsess over for the next ten years."

A quiet laugh escaped you. That sounded exactly like Clark.

Bobby shook his head. "If I'd known what was actually waiting for us in here, I would've stayed home."

Then he paused for a moment, and looked back at you.

"Honestly, I only agreed to come because I heard you were coming too."

The statement caught you completely off guard.

"What?"

Bobby shrugged awkwardly. For some reason, he suddenly seemed interested in studying the floor.

"And, Clark was acting like a lunatic. Figured somebody should make sure neither of you got yourselves killed."

Despite everything, a small smile threatened to appear. It vanished the second another thought occurred to you.

"And Kat." You raised an eyebrow. "You came because Kat was coming too, right?"

The moment the words left your mouth, something shifted in his expression. His gaze flickered away. Then he slowly shook his head.

"No."

You stared at him. "No?"

"We broke up the day before."

The hallway suddenly felt much quieter. "What?"

Bobby rubbed the back of his neck."We'd been arguing for weeks." He continued "We broke up the day before Clark showed us the wall, and honestly, I still don't know why she came back to the store after that."

A strange feeling began twisting in your stomach. Weeks. They'd been arguing for weeks. Before you'd handed in your notice. Before you'd spent days convincing yourself that leaving was the only way to stop watching them build a life together.

Something hot and ugly flared inside your chest. For a moment, you couldn't even speak. You just looked at him.

Bobby noticed immediately, and his brow furrowed. "What?"

"Weeks?" The word slipped out before you could stop it.

"Yeah." his confusion only made the feeling worse.

"Weeks." you repeated.

Bobby stared at you, confused "You okay?"

"I quit my job because of you two." you shook your head. "You remember that, right?"

"Yeah, but what does that have to do with—"

"Everything. It has everything to do with it"

The response came out harsher than you'd intended. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Bobby looked completely lost.

"I don't understand."

You stared at the carpet and stayed quiet for a few moments.

"It's just..." you started speaking before you'd fully figured out what you wanted to say. The words felt tangled somewhere in your chest. "I couldn't bring myself to be around you two anymore."

Bobby remained quiet. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly somewhere above you.

"Every day was just a constant reminder."

Bobby's gaze dropped to the floor "Oh."

The response was so small it almost hurt. You weren't sure what you expected, but right now everything seemed better than silence.

"It wasn't just that" you continued, desperate to break the silence "I hated that we stopped talking. I mean, really talking."

Bobby gave a small nod "I wanted to talk to you." He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck "There were a bunch of times I almost came over."

He then shook his head slightly, eyes drifting down the corridor "Usually I'd make it about halfway before realizing I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to say."

It was your turn to stay silent now.

"And you stopped talking to me first." He continued, a little more quiet now. "Hell, after a while I started wondering if you hated me."

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh "Hate you?" You asked, the idea sounding absurd in you mind.

You shook your head, avoiding his eyes "If I hated you, quitting would've been easy."

The words slipped before you could stop them, and you regretted them immediately. Silence settled once again. You stared stubbornly at a stain on the carpet, suddenly finding it very difficult to look at him. The longer the quiet stretched, the more aware you became of what you'd actually admitted.

Eventually, you forced yourself to glance up.

Bobby was looking at you differently. There was something almost pleased in his expression—the corner of his mouth had lifted into the faintest smile, and his eyes were fixed on yours with an intensity that instantly sent heat rushing into your face.

His gaze kept searching your expression as though he expected to find some sign that you hadn't meant what you'd said. Whatever he was looking for, he clearly wasn't finding it.

The realization seemed to settle over him slowly, and he took a small step closer. His mouth opened slightly, like he'd finally decided what he wanted to say. Whatever it was, he never got the change to say it.

A horrible screech echoed through the hallway. The sound revertebrated through the corridors, bouncing off the stained yellow walls until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. The sound was so unnatural that every hair on your body immediately stood on end. Every muscle in Bobby's body immediately tensed, and he muttered a curse under his breath.

Before you could even open your mouth, Bobby's hand closed around your wrist.

"Run."

"What?"

"Run!"

He didn't wait for an answer. One second he was standing in front of you, and the next he was dragging you down the corridor at a full sprint. You nearly stumbled trying to keep up. The fluorescent lights blurred overhead as the two of you tore through hallway after hallway.

Behind you, something crashed around a corner.

"What the fuck is that ?" you shouted between breaths.

Bobby didn't slow down even for a second "It's the thing that grabbed me." He shouted over his shoulder as the two of you turned yet another corner.

Your lungs burned, and every breath felt sharper than the last. Whatever was chasing you wasn't slowing down. If anything, it sounded closer.

Curiosity took over you, and you risked a glance backward. You immediately regretted your decision, as the creature you saw looked like something straight out of a nightmare.

"Bobby—"

"I know! Keep up!"

He tightened his grip on your hand and pulled you forward. The two of you practically threw yourselves around the next corner—only to slam directly into another person.

All three of you staggered violently, nearly getting knocked off your feet. The stranger let out a startled yell, then familiar eyes widened in recognition.

Kat.

For a split second, relief flooded her face. Then she heard the sounds behind you, and that relief vanished instantly.

"What is—"

"Run!" you shouted.

You grabbed her arm before she could finish the question and practically launched her forward.

To her credit, she didn't argue. The three of you immediately broke into another sprint.

Every turn revealed another endless stretch of yellow hallway, every glance over your shoulder revealed movement somewhere in the darkness behind you. The creature's screams echoed through the corridors, growing louder and more frustrated the longer it chased you.

Your hand remained locked in Bobby's the entire time.

Suddenly, Kat pointed ahead.

"There!"

You followed her gaze and spotted a narrow opening in the wall, barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Relief flooded your chest. Without slowing down, Kat threw herself through the gap first. You followed immediately after, twisting sideways to fit through before stumbling into a dark room on the other side. Bobby came through last.

The second he got through, a deafening impact shook the wall, indicating that the creature had reached the gap. A horrible screech echoed through the room as it slammed repeatedly against the concrete on the other side. Dust fell from the ceiling.

When it became clear that the creature couldn't reach you from there, you bent forward, struggling to catch your breath as your pulse thundered in your ears. Beside you, Kat had her hands propped against her knees, while Bobby stood near the gap, listening carefully to the creature's increasingly furious shrieks.

None of you had time to recover, as the room suddenly exploded with movement. Doors burst open around you. Flashlights swept across the darkness. Voices shouted over one another.

You barely had time to register the figures flooding the room before several of them were surrounding the three of you. They were dressed in yellow protective suits from head to toe, their faces hidden behind dark visors. Some carried weapons, others held strange equipment you didn't recognize. Their voices were muffled by masks as they shouted instructions you couldn't understand.

"What the hell—" your sentence never finished.

One of them raised a metal canister, and a thick cloud of vapor erupted into the air.

Immediately, your eyes began to sting. The room tilted as you staggered backward, since the dizziness hit so fast it was terrifying. Around you, the shouting seemed to become distant and distorted, as though you were hearing it from underwater.

Beside you, Kat stumbled into a wall. Bobby immediately moved toward you, his free hand catching your shoulder before you could collapse.

The last thing you clearly remembered was looking up at him. His face was blurry now, distorted by the fog clouding your vision. You could see his mouth moving, could hear him saying something, but the words didn't reach you.

Soon enough, darkness swallowed everything.

---

When you opened your eyes again, the first thing you noticed were the lights.

A dull ache pulsed behind your temples as you slowly became aware of your surroundings. The fluorescent lights overhead were brighter than anything you remembered, forcing you to squint if you wanted to keep your eyes open.

You were sitting in a chair. Not one of those half-sunken chairs scattered throughout the maze. A real chair—metal, cold.

For several seconds, you simply sat there trying to orient yourself. You were sitting in a long, brightly illuminated hallway that resembled a hospital waiting room.

Suddenly, movement caught your attention. A few feet away, Bobby and Kat were standing together. Neither of them had noticed you were awake.

At first, relief flooded your chest at the realization that all three of you were alive and safe.

Then you realized they were arguing. The conversation was hushed enough that you couldn't make out the words, but their expressions told you everything you needed to know. Kat looked angry. Not furious, but hurt. Bobby looked frustrated in return, running a hand through his hair as he spoke.

Whatever they were discussing, it clearly wasn't pleasant.

Before you could dwell on it any longer, Kat glanced in your direction. The argument stopped immediately as she nudged Bobby with her elbow and nodded toward you.

"She's awake." She said, louder now.

Bobby's head snapped around so fast it was almost comical. The moment he saw you sitting upright, something visibly relaxed in his expression. Without hesitation, he crossed the distance between you and dropped into the chair beside yours. For a second, he simply looked at you, as though reassuring himself that you were really okay.

"You alright?" His voice sounded rough, tired.

You considered the question. You remembered the endless nightmare you'd all just survived. The fact that you were apparently sitting in some unknown facility after being chased through nightmarish yellow maze.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "As alright as I can be."

The corners of Bobby's mouth lifted, just enough to soften some of the tension in his face. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but then again, none of you looked capable of genuine ease anymore. The weeks spent surviving had left their mark on all three of you.

Kat pushed herself away from the wall she'd been leaning against and crossed the room, stopping a few feet from your chair. She folded her arms across her chest, looking considerably better than she had when you'd first collided with her in the hallways.

"Where are we?" you asked, finally taking a better look around the room.

The place didn't resemble anything you'd seen in the maze. The walls were white and clean. The lights didn't buzz, and you could hear poeple moving through the hallways outside. It felt strange seeing a normal room again after so long.

Kat followed your gaze and shrugged. "Wherever those yellow jackets took us. I assume it's some sort of base."

"That's pretty much our best guess" Bobby added, dragging a hand through his hair. "They said they'd wait for you to wake up before asking us any questions."

You frowned. The thought made your stomach twist.

Before anyone could continue, movement in the hallway caught your attention. A man appeared around the corner, walking briskly towards you. He looked out of place compared to the people in yellow suits you saw earlier. While everyone else seemed dressed for hazardous work, he wore a white surgical coat over neat clothes, carrying a clipboard tucked beneath one arm.

The moment he reached the three of you, a bright smile appeared on his face. Something about it immediately put you on edge, as the smile didn't seem to reach his eyes.

"Good," he said as he approached. "You're awake." The man stopped a respectful distance away and adjusted the clipboard beneath his arm "My name is Stewart, and I'd like to have a chat with you, if that's all right with everyone."

The tone was polite, but there was nothing optional about what he said.

Bobby immediately sat up from his chair, shoulders straightening. "We're not going anywhere until you tell us what this place is."

Stewart's smile stood in place.

"And what the hell happened back there," Bobby continued, pointing vaguely toward one of the walls, as though the yellow maze might somehow still be lurking nearby.

"I assure you, sir, that all of your questions will be answered soon. But for that to happen, I need you to follow me so we can talk." Stewart replied smoothly.

Bobby looked entirely unconvinced. Fortunately, Stewart seemed accustomed to dealing with suspicious people. He simply waited, patiently, for Bobby to make up his mind.

A few moments later, Bobby's shoulders dropped slightly in defeat. After a few seconds, you pushed yourself out of the chair. Kat straightened up as well.

Stewart nodded once, then turned and began leading the way down the hallway. The facility was larger than you'd initially realized. The corridors stretched on forever as you passed endless doorways and passages.

The three of you stayed close together. Closer than necessary, perhaps, as your shoulder brushed Bobby's as you walked. Neither of you moved away. A sense of comfort settled in your chest simply from knowing he was there. After weeks spent believing he was dead, you found yourself stealing glances whenever you thought he wouldn't notice.

This time, he noticed. As though sensing your gaze, Bobby turned his head. For a second, your eyes met, and a lopsided smile appeared on his face. The expression was familiar enough to make your chest ache. It was the same smile he'd worn a hundred times back at Clark's. The same one he'd flashed whenever Clark said something ridiculous or whenever the two of you found yourselves stuck moving furniture around the store.

It was meant to reassure you, but you could see what sat underneath.

The exhaustion.

The uncertainty.

The lingering fear.

Bobby looked just as overwhelmed by all of this as you felt.

After a moment, both of you looked away. You looked forward just in time to notice that Stewart had stopped walking. He stood beside a plain metal door, one hand resting on the handle as he glanced back toward your group. Without a word, he pushed the door open.

The room beyond was surprisingly small. A single table sat in the center beneath a harsh overhead light, accompanied by two metal chairs. There were no decorations, no windows, just four plain concrete walls.

A knot formed in your stomach.Stewart stepped aside and gestured toward the doorway.

"If you would."

Bobby, who stood at the front of the group, hesitated briefly before stepping inside. You and Kat immediately moved to follow. Neither of you made it more than a step before Stewart lifted a hand.

The gesture wasn't aggressive. If anything, it was annoyingly polite as it stopped both of you in your tracks. You frowned immediately.

"What—"

"I'm sorry." Stewart's smile returned before you could finish speaking. "But I'll need to take you one at a time."

You stared at him."Why?"

"I need independent declarations from each of you." His tone remained calm "I'm afraid that becomes difficult if all three of you are sitting together influencing each other's recollections."

"We're not influencing anything," Kat said sharply.

Stewart's expression didn't change. "I'm sure you're not intending to."

You glanced toward Bobby, unsure. His jaw had tightened slightly, and although he wasn't arguing, you could tell he didn't like this any more than the rest of you did. Unfortunately, none of you were really in a position to refuse.

Stewart pointed toward a pair of chairs positioned against the hallway wall. "I won't keep him long. In the meantime, I suggest you make yourselves comfortable."

Comfortable. The word almost made you laugh. The heavy metal door closed behind Bobby a moment later, leaving you and Kat alone in the hallway. You lowered yourself into one of the chairs. Kat sat beside you. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then Kat broke the silence. "It's a miracle we survived."

You glanced toward her and gave a small nod."Yeah."

Neither of you elaborated. Eventually, another thought occurred to you. One that had been sitting in the back of your mind ever since finding her again.

"What happened afterwards? After we got separated?" You asked quietly.

For a moment, Kat didn't answer. Instead, she leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.

"I just ran as fast as I could." Her hands tightened together in her lap. "At first, I was convinced that something was following me. But eventually I realized I was alone."

Her eyes remained closed. "I mean. completely alone." She hesitated "And then I found Clark."

The words immediately made your stomach sink. Kat finally opened her eyes and looked toward you.

"He wasn't acting like himself. He was....calm. Like, really calm." She shook her head.

The memory clearly unsettled her — you could see it written across her face. Kat swallowed hard."He talked differently, moved differently. And before I knew it..."

She stopped. For a moment, it looked like she wasn't sure whether she wanted to continue.

"He knocked me out. The next thing I remember, I was tied to a chair, and he was talking about...about sacrifices. About survival, and how some people had to die in order for the strongest to survive."

The room suddenly felt colder. You couldn't imagine Clark saying those things. Couldn't imagine the awkward, slightly obsessive man you'd worked with becoming that heartless.

"Everything happened so fast. He tried to stab me." Kat paused as tears threatened to spill from her eyes "I don't even know how I got loose. I got one arm free somehow. Then I punched him as hard as I could and ran."

The tears finally spilled over. "I just ran. And I never saw him again after that." She sobbed, covering her face with her hands.

The silence that followed felt suffocating. You stared at her for several seconds before finally reaching out and placing a hand gently on her shoulder. There wasn't really anything you could say to make things better. Still, you tried.

"Oh my God, Kat." your voice softened. "I'm so, so sorry."

Kat immediately shook her head. A few strands of hair fell across her face. "It doesn't matter now."

The words sounded unconvincing. She stared at the closed interrogation room door, then back towards you.

"I mean, I hope we're far away from that place."

You turned to look at the closed door as well, your gaze lingering there for a moment. Bobby was somewhere behind it, being questioned by people you didn't know in a place you didn't understand, yet for the first time in a very long time, you felt oddly hopeful.

"I think these people—whoever they are—are going to help us," you said quietly. "I mean, they got us out of there, didn't they? We might even get back home soon."

Kat let out a small scoff from beside you. "Sounds too good to be true."

The words were almost mocking, but there wasn't any real malice behind them. She sounded exhausted more than anything else.

Then she sighed. "I hope you're right, though."

The hallway fell quiet again for a few moments. Kat leaned further back into her chair and tilted her head toward the ceiling.

"God, I wish I never listened to Clark." She began " I knew this was a horrible idea from the start, but I just..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "It was stupid of me to come, just like Bobby said. I don't even know why I did it, really. I just..." Her expression tightened slightly. "I guess I wanted to see Bobby."

You looked at her. The bitterness in her voice caught you off guard.

Kat laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. "Do you know what he said to me while you were knocked out?" She asked.

You opened your mouth to answer, but she didn't want for an answer. "He told me the reason he agreed to come. The real reason." She said, voice sounding strangely accusing.

Your stomach twisted immediately. The memory of that conversation in the hallway resurfaced before you could stop it.

'I only agreed because I heard you were coming too.'

You lowered your gaze to the floor. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Kat was the first to break the silence. "I'm not mad or anything."

You glanced back up. She was staring ahead now, her arms folded across her chest.

"I mean, I always kind of knew there was something between you two." She admitted "I just ...didn't think it mattered."

Heat immediately rushed into your face, and you quickly shook your head. "No, Kat, it's nothing like that."

Kat looked at you for a second before raising an eyebrow. Then she shook her head. "You must be truly blind to think of it that way, then."

You looked away again, your eyes settling on the floor ahead of you. A part of you wondered whether there was any chance she was right. The thought lingered for a moment before you immediately pushed it away.

Because if that was true, if there really had been something there all this time, then why would Bobby have gotten together with Kat in the first place? The question alone seemed enough to disprove the entire idea. Surely Kat was wrong.

You closed your eyes briefly and shook the thought away.

The silence that shrouds the store would be unnerving if it weren’t like it all the time, the buzz of electricity becoming a monotonous hum you learnt to drown out after your first week here. The place is practically desolate, too large for how little furniture you actually sell, and for once Clark isn’t around. 

Rain thunders against the windows outside, the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the street before thunder rattles the walls, making your heart skip once, your nerves already on edge. Bobby is seated beside you, twirling a pen absently between his fingers, the clicking of the plastic only adding to the few sounds breaking the silence.

“You could go home, you know.” You glance up from the list in front of you, the endless sprawl of words that make no sense, with check marks you’ve learnt mean nothing. Clark doesn’t check inventory and it seemingly hasn’t changed in months: no deliveries, no sales. 

Bobby meets your gaze quickly, eyes darting away almost immediately. “Yeah.” 

Your brows raise. “Then why are you still here?” 

For a moment, he’s quiet. He spins the pen again but fumbles halfway through, and it clatters to the ground, rolling beneath the desk, forgotten. He makes no move to pick it up, simply cursing under his breath and slumping back further in his chair. His shirt pulls up just enough to flash a line of tanned stomach before he tugs it back down again, so quickly that you’re almost sure it never happened. “I don’t know.”  

“Then go home.” You huff, laughter seeping into the words as you finally cap your pen and let it drop into the otherwise empty pot occupying the desk. The same row of ticks remain on the paper and you clip it back onto the board behind you, marvelling at it for a fleeting moment.

Perhaps, marvelling is generous—your job isn’t amazing. Nobody comes in, and even if they do, they don’t buy anything. The pay isn’t great, and your boss is always cooped up in his office or making Bobby film him as he hobbles around in a pirate suit, a futile attempt at an ad in hopes of drawing more customers in. 

It’s yet to work. 

Bobby clears his throat from where he’s still slumped, straightening immediately once your attention turns back to him. He drags a hand through his blonde locks, making a few strands stick up in every which direction, eyes meeting your own. They’re a piercing blue beneath the sickly lighting and another flash of lightning reveals gold flecks hidden beneath, catching the light just right before disappearing once again. 

“You leaving now?” 

“Are you?” You counter, reaching for your jacket on the back of your chair and shrugging it on. It isn’t waterproof at all, and you don’t doubt that the rain will soak through it by the time you reach the bus stop. 

“No point in hanging around on my own.” He shrugs, standing too. You note that he was wiser than you, pulling on a thin coat that at least has a hood, though he doesn’t pull it up just yet, instead glancing briefly at the clock hanging precariously on the otherwise bare wall. “What time is your bus?” 

“Eight-fifteen.” You follow his gaze. 8:05 pm. “I’ve got ten minutes.” 

Bobby frowns, gaze shifting to the rain still hammering down outside, back to the clock, and then to the watch on his wrist. “You sure?” 

You fix him with a look, tucking your hair behind your ears in a weak attempt to preserve it from the rain. “I think I can read a clock, Bobby.” 

“Oh, yeah, sure.” He nods, following after you. “Except… Well, that clocks fifteen minutes behind. It’s eight-twenty.” And as if to prove his point, he flashes his watchface at you, the hands glaring beneath the flickering lights, pointing in completely the right directions, vastly different to the clock on the wall. The harrowing reality dawns over you in a rush of panic. 

“No.” You glance up at him, half expecting him to smile and laugh, but he expression remains unchanging, mildly apologetic. “No, no. That’s the last bus and it’s an hour walk from here–” 

“Oh.” 

The silence seems to return between you, the rain outside growing louder and louder by the second, another rumble of thunder passing through the building. Bobby shifts on the balls of his feet, changing his weight like he isn’t sure what else to do, as though moving too much might disturb something else. He rubs the back of his neck, attention firmly on the ground, as though the sterile, cool tile is suddenly the most interesting part of his day. 

“I mean. I’m heading that way. I could drop you off at home.” You glance up sharply, hope overriding your disappointment, and he quickly adds. “If you want. I’m not gonna force you but–” 

“Are you sure?”  

He lapses into silence, his rambling cutting off and he gives a firm nod. “Yeah.” 

Everything after that seems to pass in a blur; he heads downstairs to switch off the lights, bathing you in darkness, leaving you with only the dim shine of the streetlamp outside and the more frequent flash of lightning. The overhang beyond the door isn’t exactly big enough for the both of you, and you huddle together awkwardly as he locks up the door, checking it one before turning to the empty expanse of parking lot, his car far out in the middle. 

He turns to you, giving you a once over, before gesturing to your jacket, which is now pulled tightly around you, blocking out the chill. “That thing isn’t waterproof.” 

You huff a weak laugh. “Clearly.” 

Bobby rolls his eyes at the comment and before you can say anymore, he’s taken off his own and is handing it out to you like some sort of peace offering, like he isn’t standing there in a tshirt, jeans and nothing else. 

“Take it.” 

“No.” You push it back. “You’ll get soaked.” 

“I’ll be fine.” he insists, and the words don’t waver. “My hair won't take ages to dry.” 

Reluctantly, you wrap his coat around yourself, trying not to focus on the way his cologne envelops you, the hood shielding you from the rain still pelting down from above. You both hurry across the empty lot, and you don’t let yourself breathe until you're safely in the passenger's seat, droplets hammering on the tin roof in a deafening cadence. 

His door slams shut and he starts the engine, hot air immediately filtering in through the vents and banishing the chill that had begun to creep into your bones. His coat is drenched and you place it apologetically in the back footwell, careful not to drip water all over the seats. 

“Thanks.” You mutter eventually, voice strangely quiet. 

Bobby looks over as he checks over his shoulder, a useless action considering no one is around at all, before backing out of the car space. “What for?” 

“The coat. Taking me home.”

“Oh.” He nods once, attention fixed firmly on the road ahead, though you’re almost certain his cheeks tinge a faint shade of pink as he merges into traffic, finally joining the rest of civilization. “It’s nothing. Really.” 

Yet, beneath his tone, there’s a tacit understanding that it means far more than he lets on. 

Cars pass around you, everyone going on with their own lives, and you watch headlights dance amongst the haze of the rainfall, glittering in puddles, the occasional horn cutting through the quiet. Bobby remains silent, though it isn’t uncomfortable as much as it is grounding, finally giving you a moment to settle with your thoughts. The store might be empty, but the consistent buzz of the lights and unease that courses through you the moment you step inside seems to block out any rational thought. 

Sparing a glance to the backseat, you notice a camcorder and a few tapes scattered around as well as a crumpled script. Your brow furrows in curiosity as you reach back for the camera, letting it settle in your lap. 

“I didn’t know you were a film student?” 

Bobby clears his throat, a quiet laugh escaping him that sounds more like a rumble in his chest. “I’m not… I mean, not properly. I’d like to be…” 

“Then why aren’t you?” 

“Money.” He takes the turn onto your street; you didn’t realise he remembered where you live and you’d only mentioned it once, yet there's something almost endearing about it. “Which numbers yours?” 

“The third one.” 

He pulls up on the curb outside, finally killing the engine, leaving only the patter of rain on the room and the silence that hangs suspended between you. Carefully, he takes the camera from your hands, his fingers brushing your own. The touch is fleeting, lasting only a second before you can think too much about it. 

“I’m not that good. But everyone has something they wanna do, right?” 

You offer him a weak smile. “Yeah. I guess so.” 

He nods, swallowing thickly, fingers tapping against the side of the camcorder. He clears his throat once, a habit you’ve to notice he does when the quiet lingers a few moments too long. 

“Thank you.” You smile, genuine this time, not so tight. The tension in his shoulders loosens as he returns it, and you can’t help but notice the way his eyes seem to light up. “I really appreciate this. You didn’t have too—” 

“I wasn’t gonna let you walk home.” He cuts in, catching himself quickly. “I mean… You don’t know who's hanging around at this time. Would’ve felt bad.” 

You tilt your head, smile still tugging at the corners of your lips. “You would've felt bad?” 

Bobby nods earnestly. “Yeah.” 

“You worry too much.” 

His expression tightens slightly, as though you’ve hit something far deeper than he intended to make obvious, but he corrects it quickly, schooling the twitch in his brows into something more unreadable. “Probably.” 

“You’re a good guy, Bobby.” The confession slips free before you can think about what you’re saying, and his eyes widen slightly, lips parting just enough that he looks like a fish dragged from water. 

“You think?” 

You nod, the motion causing a strand of hair to flop in front of your eyes. His hand reaches out instinctively, brushing it back behind your ear, the touch lingering longer than necessary. The space between you both suddenly feels impossibly small and you find yourself gravitating closer, as though pulled by some mystery force.

His eyes search yours for permission, for any sign of wariness—when he finds none, he closes the distance, lips meeting yours in a kiss so featherlight and tender that it's no more than a brush. It doesn't last long, and the quiet that returns when you both pull away is heavier than before, though this time with something you hadn’t realised was simmering between you both. 

Bobby blinks once. “Sorry.” 

The laugh that bubbles out of you happens before you can stop it, abrupt and seraphic, the kind that fills the space and drags a smile out of him despite his nerves. 

“For what?” 

He shakes his head, his own laugh escaping until you’re both practically boneless. “I don’t know.” 

You’re not sure how long the two of you sit there, giggling like children until you’re red in the face. When you finally glance at your house, the windows dark, the reflection of the car looking back through the blur of rain, you take a long breath. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Bobby nods, suddenly sobering up as though you’d just asked the easiest question. “Yeah.” 

You reach for the door handle, pushing it open, legs already soaked by the rain. However, now, you find you don’t mind. Not when he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing is the whole world that matters. 

“Thanks again.” 

He grins. “Anytime.” 

And as you hurry inside, you notice he stays parked at the curb until you’re safely inside. Only then, does the engine grumble to life once more and he drives to his own home with a lovesick grin. 

You have been here since before it existed. Since before those yellow walls were all that one could see. You pre-exist this place which you inhabit, you know this, but you cannot remember. It is the truest sound of your existence, this fact, that you were here before these rooms, endless as they are, ever existed.

            You cannot remember. The only lingering reminder that this was not all that you had before is that cruel, cold voice that you do not know, cannot name, but hear endlessly whispering, this is your prison. You do not know why it is your prison, you do not know why it was created, what you did. But you do know that it did not use to be endless. 

            You remember when it was once, a single room. Four walls of yellow, floor that same yellow as the walls, dreary. Endless in its own way, but closed. A closed circuit, nothing in nothing out. 

            Those were the days of insanity. You remember dragging your fingers down the walls, your nails shredding, shredding, shredding, body collapsing and folding in on itself and you call that your fire. Because from it, a new form of you arose, the phoenix from the ash. Funny those things that humans tell themselves, their little stories. Their fears. 

            You remember when you decided that you had enough of that single, yellow room, pushing out against the walls, feeling them expand, feeling your prison change, the ground beneath your feet rumbling, moving, shifting. Seismic shift. Change. 

            You remember making the room larger, a wall here, a wall there, making it what you wanted, expanding it and lifting the ceiling, creating. Creating what…you did not entirely know, just something. You had no mental blueprint, no idea from which you formed, you just were. You just did. Instinctual, almost like your muscles remembered what your mind forgot. 

            What was stolen. 

            That’s another thing you know, the memories are gone. Stolen. How, you do not know, but you know that they must have been for no mind is so strong as to lock itself entire. You know that whatever they took from you is the life you had before, before this room, these endless collections that you started to create, the branches that brought the creatures in. 

            It is a truth universally acknowledged that darkness flocks to darkness, that light attracts light and that holes in the universe must be filled, occupied. Nature abhors a vacuum after all. 

            You created a vacuum. 

            The more you expanded your prison, the more you created an unbalance that had to be filled. And when the entities began to arrive, it told you one thing about what had been taken from you. You had not been good, perhaps you had been darkness in itself. Darkness as a being. For only the dark could bring the evil in and you did. You saw it with the Smilers, the Howlers, the Skin-stealers, the Windows. You saw it with the creatures that took to upper floors, to the supposed privacy offered. 

            You saw the darkness in all but one type that found your world—the Wanderers. You knew what they were the first time you saw one, the word coming to your mind unbidden as if it had been there all along: human. 

            You knew that the humans were ambiguous, never completely light never completely dark. You think that is why they can slip through the tears in the walls, the tears in the fabric that occurs every time a new entity slips into your world. You have watched countless die, fed upon or simply toyed with until they collapse, insane. Dead. Eaten. Destroyed. Unmade. 

            The list goes on. 

            It took time before you cared enough to protect them, it took the child. The little girl, wandering in, crying. It took watching her step foot onto the wrong level, into the domain of the entities which like to unmake that which is alive, it took watching the mist of her body, the vaporization to realize that no. No, it is not okay to sit idly by and watch them die. 

            You knew whenever new creatures slipped into your world, knew whenever the wanderers stepped in. You were attune to it. You always knew, alarm bells in your own head except not an alarm, but the human’s voices. 

            You never missed it. 

            Except…one day you did. 

            You were in the Poolrooms, the place you shifted, recreated by some unseen, unknown, unremembered mental architecture, a place endless on its own, a calm place. The only place where destruction is not allowed; nothing dangerous in completion can reside nor visit. It is the place on which you built your home, the lull of water-not-water your place. Your safety. 

            It began as a mimic of what you learned was called a “beach” but as more Wanderers came through, it morphed, their memories, like yours hinged on whatever kind of plane that made this collection of infinity exist. As if their memories and yours were tangible things that the architecture of this infinity could access to change itself, recreate, restructure, to ease you into peacefulness as best it can. 

            Now, the place smells like chemicals, like what one Wanderer called chlorine. A swimming pool in endless existence. But still a place of peace even if not restructured by your own memories. Your own existence. 

            You had been there, at peace, at rest, not thinking of anything, yet still hearing that cold cruel voice in its entirety whisper this is your prison over and over and over amid splashes of the water-not-water. Amid the lives of the creatures on this floor, this level as the researchers deemed it. 

            You had been there, doing nothing, the very best kind of something, the time when you traversed the yellowed halls in your mind, following paths and wandering through your own prison looking for what you’ve been trying to build for years—an exit. A way out. 

            You had reached Level 947, not the name you had given it, but rather the researchers made of Wanderers that you let probe the halls, hoping they would find something in your prison’s composition that would give you back what you lost, the memories that were removed, the freedom that was taken, when you heard the first jagged scream. 

            “BOBBY!” had reverberated all around you, loud and sharp and long in your head, unbidden. You had felt it, the words causing a sharp ache in your head, a ringing in your ears and you had fallen forwards, landing with a splash in the chlorine blue water, the liquid shifting, rearranging its atoms to drag you down, pull you through and push you up at a different level, different floor, a body of a young girl resting there, a Smiler having killed her. 

            You hated the Smilers, their malevolence and pleasure upon particularly torturous deaths. This girl was no different, torso bludgeoned, head torn off, ripped from the neck, blood and viscera, bits of spinal cord staining the carpet in long trails from the blood.

            “Poor girl,” you whispered, raising your hand and pulling it down, her body sinking into the yellow floors, the carpet bowing like a strange mirrored ripple, like a bubble expanding, her body disappearing to the level no one had access to, the one below the first. The graveyard you created for the lost. 

            “NO! NO!” you heard, another painful echo, painful ripple, your hands flying to your ears as you tried to stop it, make the pain stop! Just silence all the voices, your body falling into a wall, the solidity becoming liquid, shifting and changing, allowing your body to fall right through onto another level, this one darker than before, a mimic before you, standing over the body of the man it tried to mask, to recreate to no avail, the body being consumed, pulse gone. 

            He was dead, food, fodder. 

            That would not stand. 

            You raised both of your hands, one pushing out, the monstrous form of the dead man flying out and slamming against the wall, yellowed arms peeling from the wallpaper, holding it in place as your other hand jerked down, pulling the man down, down, down into the graveyard of the Wanderers.

            The ones who never made it home. 

            With another wave of your hand, it was like the entity was never there at all, except for the small little press mark of a body on the wall. 

            The Destroyers were not the only ones who could unmake those within these yellow, hallowed, haunted halls. 

            But something was not right, you could feel a shift, a change, a rearrangement. Something that is, but should not be. Something that exists despite all odds. It was like a rope around your waist, something tugging, tugging, tugging. Something dragging, dragging, dragging you forwards, towards…something. 

            You passed through yellowed corridor after yellowed corridor, disappearing down stairs, following the tug, feeling entities flee, their scuttering and whispering and whimpering and calling audible through the thin walls made of nothing and yet everything. 

            “Mm, Kat,” you heard a broken, dying voice whisper, but not in your head, rather the halls. You saw a figure on the ground, a head of blond hair, blood on the ground, entities once there to feed on the life force, now gone, fleeing from your presence, you the Creator as the researchers have named you—no matter that you explained you did not create this place, rather it was created for you. Humans…they do not understand. 

            You walked towards him, the carpet sticking between your soles, drawn to the wetness that lingers upon your skin from the Poolrooms, the feeling of peeling and sticking over and over the symphony as you approach the dying man. 

            The man that will not die if you have anything to say about it. 

            For he was what the sensation brought you too and he is the one you didn’t sense. And that…

            That has never happened before. 

            “DON’T LET GO!” Bobby screams, claws digging into his leg, tearing through his skin, through his flesh, rending his leg apart. He never should have come here, he should have listened to Kat and not done this, just stopped on the level where Clark had been fine. Just stayed there, made Clark go down with his camera, it never should have been him. Why did he say yes? Why did he agree?

            And what the fuck is holding onto him, letting out those screams?

            “NOO!” he screams as the creature tugs hard on him again, pulling him down into the room with the mirror of his shirt, the mimic, like someone had taken an image and this place was the negative impression. 

            Claws bite into his skin, tearing through him, digging into him, an insane smile and eyes in front of him, gleaming in the fluorescent lights. 

            “BOBBY!” he hears Kat scream, but then the smile widens, claws digging into his chest and he can’t hear anymore. He is nothing but pain and blood and leaking. He watches with numbness and ringing and that feeling of sticky blood trailing over skin as the creature cuts a smile into his belly, cutting beneath his skin, flaying him alive. It’s enjoying it. 

            The fucker is enjoying it, a perverse sort of pleasure drawn from the art of killing. Was this what like those serial killer victims saw? Someone enjoying their death?

            It’s the scariest thing of all. 

            He doesn’t know how long he watches his own mutilation before his vision begins to blur, but it is enough to know that his body is a masterpiece of cuts and blood and his own insides. It is enough to see the smile of the creature turn even more vicious if such a thing were possible, blood splattering across it. 

            But it seems like no time has truly passed before the creature is running, its claws dripping his blood in a pattern, first a steady line then one that dries to a few drips. And…wait…what happened to Kat? Clark? Where are they? What’s happened?

            Why is he not dead?

            It’s then, as his vision is shrinking to a single spot of light that he sees you, this haloed figure, bright and tall and angelic. 

            “You will not die,” he hears you whisper, your hand reaching out for his face. He knows that most would flinch, but he can feel something, like a tugging within him, pulling him to you and he leans into your touch as the world fades away to black. 

            To silence.

            Perhaps forever. 

            His eyes feel heavy, exhaustingly so, yet there is something inside of him that says to open them, to look, to see even when he never liked looking at the world with his own eyes, preferring to see them through the viewfinder of a camera, a separation between him and the rest of the world. Between the cruelty he’d seen, been a part of; victim of. 

            What he sees when he opens his eyes is not the yellow walls of the Backrooms or furniture store, it is not his apartment or Kat’s, but rather a room with four blue walls and floor made of white veined marble. The room at first glance, first sight, is peaceful, tranquil. Real. 

            But that is a façade that fades when he turns his head, taking in the long drag of lines, jagged and afraid upon the surface of the walls. Nail marks, like something or someone dragged their nails down, down, down, gouging holes yet not holes into the walls. They’re marks of desperation, of dying, of insanity. In them, he can see pain. 

            It’s art in its own disturbing way. 

            “You’re awake,” he hears and he blinks once, turning his head to look for the owner of that voice, landing on you, a being that is human yet not. Like a person if one turned the definition up a thousand times, enhanced the colours past every possible saturation level. Made the lines a little blurry, a little hard to focus on. As if you were supposed to be the most impossibly beautiful person but also one that no one can see clearly. 

            An image whose features have been blurred yet the beauty is undeniable. 

            “Who are you?” he asks, his voice dry, throat pained, like something is tearing deep inside of him, his voice scraping against his throat, eyes dry too, the light even in this different room too much. 

            “I…don’t know. Some stories…some stories, even I am not privy to,” you whisper and your voice is like the rest of you, so impossibly beautiful yet blurred around the edges, shape strange. Unable to be replicated. The timbre too complex, the pitch unable to pinned down and the volume…he doesn’t quite know if it’s loud or quiet, simply that it fills the air, surrounds him and seems to expand and contract inside his mind. As if your voice is only in his head. “But if it’s a name to call me by, the researchers call me The Creator.”

            “Researchers?” His voice is still dry, voice still scraping against the walls of his throat, the esophagus, fraying his vocal cords. 

            “Yes,” he hears you say, your voice still seeming to be directly in his head, some magic of you or these rooms, this place, maybe, he doesn’t know. “And I will answer your questions when I return, Wanderer. But you are not the only one to slip through the crack. There is another who must be saved.”

            He watches as one minute you’re standing right there in front of him, blurry yet beautiful and the next you’re across the room, like your body moves miles in the time it takes him to blink once, breath even. 

            “WAIT!” he yells and he sees you pause, not muscles going rigid like he would in others, but rather your body rippling, the figure seeming to waver as you turn. 

            “Yes?” you say, your voice still directly in his head yet radiating all around him as well. 

            “Why am I here?” he asks and his voice is so quiet that he doubts you can hear him, his voice still scraping against his throat, but he blinks and you’re before him, kneeling, your figure bright, too bright and he can’t look directly at you as if you’re the sun. 

            “You…slipped through a crack into…what you Wanderers call the Backrooms. Um…you very nearly died, a Smiler having torn you apart. I saved you…and when…your wounds have healed, I shall send you back too. But for now, you must promise to remain here, to not move. So long as you remain in the blue, you will be safe. This…is my domain; no other entity dare tread here.” You rise again and you don’t move like a human, which he supposes, you aren’t one. You move like water, your body rippling and glowing, gleaming and refracting. 

            “I’ll stay so long as you promise to tell me everything,” he says and you let out a laugh and it is like no sound he’s ever heard before, a sound that defies description. It is like the wind through trees, like waves crashing on rocks, like thunder and lightning and raindrops on skin and like darkness and light, all in one. 

            “You humans never fail to amaze me,” you whisper. “You try to assert control where you have never had any. Very well, Wanderer. I shall tell you all when I return.”

            And then you’re gone in the space of one breath and the next. 

            Almost like you were never there at all. 

            “W-what is this p-place?” the Wanderer with dark hair and pale skin and fear radiating off of her in acrid waves asks you, her crazed dark blue eyes tracing every inch of the yellow space, of the haunted, cursed walls. 

            “A prison,” you whisper, your hand laced through hers, holding tight as you lead her, pull her, guide her, through wall after wall after wall, up and down and up and down, past floors holding creatures you don’t dare name and ones you do like Mr. Kitty and the Windows and you go past the God, the Father, towards the M.E.G base. 

            “For what?” she asks and you can hear that note of fear in her voice, the kind of note that comes from realizing that what you’ve been scared of all along has never been the real danger at all. 

            “Me,” you whisper, tugging her through a final wall, the marked out entrance for the researchers ahead, a Hazmat suited researcher waiting. 

            “What did you do?” she asks and you glance back at her, noticing the clever gleam that is returning, like she is wired to solve problems and you have just become one that she wants to solve. 

            “I don’t know,” you reply before pulling your hand forward sharply, throwing her forwards into the individual’s arms, into the safety that her world will provide. 

            “Creator?” another researcher calls out, stepping into the domain of your prison, your space, your home. “Is there anything we should know?” This is the old routine you and the researchers have. You tell them if the Wanderer’s must be treated delicately or not at all. If something has been seen, passed, transmitted. 

            The last thing you want to do is return a human infected with Entity 999. Those Wanderers you are forced to unmake yourself. The spread of 999…it would be ruinous to…everything. 

            “Don’t hurt her; don’t interrogate her. Take her home. Treat her well,” you reply and you watch as his head moves, cranks in a way that suggests he hates your voice, hates the way it sounds to his human ears, the way it is everything that has ever been and nothing at the same time. You are a paradox, beautiful yet not, seen yet not. 

            There is no focus in the eyes of humans. They are simple, basic. Weak. 

            But their fragility is what makes them something worth saving. The way they make meaning from mortality and strive to understand that which comes before and after, making meaning out of pain. 

            They know a side of living that you never will. You will never understand what it is like to be dying at the same time you are living. You will never understand the ways that limited time enhances everything you see because for you…time is no measure. No worth. 

            There is no death for that which has no end nor beginning. 

            You only leave, cutting through the walls and sinking through the floors once you see the scared Wanderer with eyes of cleverness disappear into her world. 

            Once you know that she’s returned to where she must be. 

            It is then that you return to the place where everything began. 

            The boy is still there, curled up in a ball, his body scarred, one continuous jagged white lined piece of art created by a smile made of sadism. His fingers trail over the wall, over the marks you gouged into them once and long ago, the ones made of desperation and pain and fear and the kind of feeling that only comes from having no history. No memory. 

            Aside from that cruel voice and that one fact, you woke up knowing not who you are nor could be nor were. You were nothing and no one and there is a particular feeling that comes with that. One that no human language can capture. One that no language period can capture. 

            “You stayed,” you say, watching as he jerks his head to look at you, not fear in his eyes but curiosity. Almost a kind of tainted familiarity. 

            “You promised me answers,” he counters and you sigh, but nod because you did. You understand that for this boy, the one who still needs to heal before he can leave, before the toxins of a Backrooms death clear out of his system, you hold all the answers. 

            “Very well,” you tell him, crossing the room, knowing that he will not see your movement, that his human mind is incapable of witnessing what you can do. What you are. It’s not hard to reach your hand up, pulling it up, the other pulling with it, shaping the object that you, the chair, one made of blue and white like the change you made to the original room when you cried and begged and pleaded for freedom, hands flat on the wall. Watching as it shifted. 

            “What are you?” he asks you as you sit upon what you have newly created from whatever this place, this liminal prison is made of. 

            “I do not know,” you tell him. “I only know that I predate this place. These walls. I know that I used to exist before it, that it was created for me, the only words from the past that remain being this is your prison. I am ancient. I am…the first.”

            “But you’re not human?” he clarifies and you can feel a smile growing on your face at this boy, this peculiar human who sounds like someone trying to be what they are not. 

            “No,” you whisper, looking down at your hands, the hands that are not like his, but rather elongated, an extra knuckle, strange but ever yours. “I am not human. I am…something that defies description.”

            “What about these marks? What made them?” he asks you, his finger rising and pointing, digging into the lines of despair that you left embedded in the walls so long ago. 

            “I did,” you answer. “Those are from my nails when this endless plane of terror and fear began as a single room. My room. Four yellow walls, closed no door. I wanted to leave. I fought. Pleaded. Begged. Tried to dig my way out. Then I pushed and found the walls gave way, but before the giving way…I left my mark.”

            “So, this place,” he says, looking around, sky-blue eyes tracing every inch, “is the beginning.”

            “Yes,” you tell him. “This room was the first. And then I made it bigger. I made it larger. I made it a vacuum and did what nature did not like and so it filled it.”

            “Do you know anything about yourself?” That’s the question, isn’t it? Because no, you don’t. You have guesses and assumptions, but no true answer, no real facts. No real truth. 

            “Not for certain, but I do know that what filled the vacuum are evil things and what is more magnetic for the darkness than the epicentre of it all. The darkest of the dark. Isn’t that me?” The boy pushes himself to standing, his movements shaky, the poison of the Smiler still running through his veins as he approaches you and your cold, cold form. The form that has never once been touched, only seen in blurred figments, the only touch being from your left hand, the one that is not bare skin, but rather covered with a layer of cloth. 

            Something you did for you have never known if humans could survive your touch or if they would perish. 

            But this boy does not care, simply steps to you, hands reaching, taking your face in his hands, his warm calloused hands, ones that have created while you have destroyed in the name of protection. His touch is warm and your body feels strange, heavy and weighted and odd. Like the Wanderer you met once who spoke of nerves. 

            You…are nervous. 

            This boy makes you nervous. 

            Strange…thousands of years, thousands of bodies and Wanderers and yet, this boy, the Smiler’s masterpiece makes you nervous. 

            You imagine that if you had a heart inside of your body it would be pounding, but you don’t have one. You have a cavity in a body composed of magic, of illusion, of the threads of something that you just cannot remember. 

            “I don’t know much,” the boy whispers, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone, light and soft and kind, his thumb calloused, “but I do know that if this were your prison, whoever created it wouldn’t fill it with things that are like you. That would be a reward. Maybe…you’re really just…good. You saved me, didn’t you?”

            How simple it all is for humans; how simple everything must be when there is life and there is death and not an endless stretch of seeing everything and feeling nothing. 

            But perhaps…perhaps this human boy is right, perhaps your prison is exactly that: a prison filled with the kind of things that oppose your order. 

            And the boy steps back, falling back against the wall, his body slumping down, down, down, eyes fluttering shut as if he never expected an answer to the question asked. 

            As if the answer didn’t matter for he already knew. 

            You saved him. 

            “How are you feeling?” you ask the boy as his eyes flutter open, fixing on you with startling intensity, a familiarity inside of them as he looks at you, watching yet not seeing. Not truly. He sees an outline, a blur, a still capture messed up on film yet undeniably perfect all the same. 

            “Alive,” he rasps and his voice sounds strange, dry, unused. You wonder if it’s been destroyed by his screaming or if all Wanderers sound this way when they have awoken from what they call sleep, that thing you’ve never had, never experienced. 

            There is no sleep for something which cannot die. 

            “Do you want to go home?” you ask and he shakes his head, the gesture strange and his face twisted, pained. 

            “Show me this place first,” he says, not demand or ask, but plea. A bed. “Show me the world that almost killed me. That killed Kat, Clark. Please.”

            “Very well, but be warned, hu—” He stands, his voice cutting over yours, stopping you in your tracks. 

            “My name is Bobby,” he whispers. “Bobby Franklin.”

            “Very well, Bobby, but be warned. This prison was never meant for your eyes, for human sight. It is not a place of wonders, but of horrors. Do not be fooled.”

            You can see the house, the pink front glimmering despite the absence of a sun—how you know what a sun is, you are not entirely sure, only that the word and its definition exist, remain. You know the entity inside the house, the only one that does flee from you, the one who loves the Wanderers. The one who tries to protect them as best he can. 

            “Why is there a pink house?” the boy, Bobby, whispers, his fingers interlaced with yours. He chose your right hand, chose your bare skin rather than the cloth that binds the left. He said that your skin felt right against his. That nothing had yet been like that here or there, the human world. 

            “It’s Mr. Kitty’s home,” you answer, stepping forwards, your steps not human steps, not really and in the span it takes for Bobby to draw a single breath you are there, your hand knocking on the pink, plasticky door. 

            “You have a Wanderer,” the deep voice calls, the one that Bobby cannot hear, that only you are privy to, his frequency not audible to human ears. 

            “I do,” you reply, the same frequency as his. Something Bobby cannot hear as well, your voice a mimic. You could speak to the entire human world and they would always understand you, your voice built of the universal frequency, your intention to speak in meaning, each human mind converting the frequency to their language, your meaning plain. 

            You can speak in any language, any frequency. You can speak to any entity in their natural sound. Your voice is that connector, a maker of meaning. A creator. 

            Perhaps the researchers were not so inaccurate with your name. 

            “Why have you brought him here? You like to make them leave?” The question is not angry, but neutral, curious. That is the basis of Mr. Kitty—curiosity. A shadow borne of a child’s mind, sentenced to the Backrooms by a pull, leaving his child’s side as no shadow, no imaginary friend ever should. It’s why his level is the way it is. 

            A mime of the house he remembers, the one his child always wanted. 

            “A Smiler made him a masterpiece, cut him up, but fled when I returned. He…he is special…I never heard him when he entered. Only heard the other humans when they were far from him.”

            “How did you find him?”

            “I was pulled to him,” you answer and the door swings open, his shadow there in front of you as he gestures you in, Bobby tensing behind you, hand spasming with fright in yours. 

            “You know where you must go,” Mr. Kitty says and you sigh, the kind of sigh that humans call deep, soul-shattering if you had a soul, tiring for your lungs if you had any. 

            “The Father,” you reply and the shadow nods his formless head, stepping back as you pull Bobby forwards through the pink kitchen, towards the dining room table, setting him down upon a chair, a plate of cookies before him. “Eat,” you tell him and he startles, blinking, body shaking as he looks between you and the shadow. “It’s safe.” He listens, taking one of the sugared treats and lifting it to his mouth as you turn to the shadow, your only friend. 

            “The Father will be expecting you,” he says and you nod, the knowledge of the Wanderer who chose to stay, the one from the time of The Lost. The humans who wanted to stay, who found their people, found their purpose. The ones who became entities in their own right, did unspeakable things because you let them remain. 

            You did not push for their return and the Father is one of them. 

            “He knows nothing of my history before this place,” you remind Mr. Kitty. “Only that I am the first, the beginning and the end.”

            “No,” he replies, shadow head inclining, “but he might know the boy.”

            “Any news on the so-called God?” you ask and the shadow turns away from you to watch Bobby who is sitting, looking at the two of you, questions in his ice blue eyes. 

            “You could end him if you chose to,” he reminds you and reach forwards, hitting his shoulder, a deep purr echoing through the room to you and you alone, Bobby growing agitated and confused. The purr is his laugh. 

            “But I don’t,” you whisper. “It’s my fault he is the way he is. I will not be his end as well.”

            “Sentimental,” he purrs and you roll your eyes at him even though he appears to not be looking at you, you know he sees. 

            “The God is no real threat to us. He cannot even leave these walls. Nothing can.”

            “Are you guys done with the silent conversation?” Bobby says and his voice is high, agitated and angry, brows drawn together. “Because I was promised explanations.”

            “No,” you counter, voice in his frequency, the one of humans. “You were promised a sight-seeing exploration of this place. That is what I’m giving you.”

            “Why is this place pink?” he asks and you can hear the hitched sound of Mr. Kitty’s cries, can see as he turns, walks away, his journey not visible to Bobby, to any human eye. 

            “Because of Mr. Kitty’s past,” you tell him. “And it is not mine to tell. Now, we have lingered long. I have gotten what I came for. Let’s go.”

            “It’s a giant pool room!” Bobby exclaims, letting go of your hand and running forwards, jumping, splashing, right into one of the pools, the water-not-water splashing around, landing on the pockmarked cement floor all around the winding infinite pools. 

            “It began as a beach!” you call out to him and he surfaces, a hand rising, swiping his damp hair back from his face, slicking it back with the water-like substance. 

            “Tell me a story,” he says and you comply, crossing the floor towards him, the white gown you wear flowing around you, the same dress you’ve had since the beginning. Since it was a single room.

            “Did your education teach you the story of “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Gilman?” you ask, sitting down upon the pool edge, your feet slipping beneath the warm liquid, feeling it around you in the way one does when one is numb. 

            “Yeah.”

            “Well, it’s not a story,” you reply and he swims forwards, treading water before leaning against the poolside, elbows pressed down, arms crossed, his head upon his wet skin, your breath hitching in a way that is too human for an entity that can never even live nor die. 

            “Do tell,” he says and you have to wonder if he remembers what has happened, if he’s in shock or if he’s trying to ignore it. You find it doesn’t matter. Humans are strange and if he craves entertainment, you shall grant it. 

            “I’d expanded this place quite a bit and I was in a section one day, watching this woman, watching her abuse and I beckoned her in. I made a crack so she could see, so she could slip through if she chose, but she didn’t. She spent day in and day out just watching me before I closed the crack and simply watched in the way I can, like a two-way mirror. I watched as she went insane, tearing the wallpaper off with her fingers, searching for me and never finding the door. Her husband found her and she cracked, acted as if she were me, the ‘woman in the wallpaper’ before she hurled herself out of the window. Dying. 

            “Well, her friend was Charlotte Perkins Gilman herself and she found a way to me. Found a crack I hadn’t noticed and demanded to know why I tortured her. I said I wanted to free her, to find her a new way out and she said that it wouldn’t have worked. That the world would always see a woman as hysterical rather than right. She asked my story, I told her and she said it must have been a man that locked me away. Scared of me, my power.” Bobby is watching you with rapt attention, but you are only half here, the other half standing before that powerful, righteous woman as she mourned in a way that was angry. That was a fight. 

            “How’d you find out about the story?”

            “Another Wanderer, years later spoke of it. She was studying it in school. It wasn’t quite allowed but she was doing it anyway. She was quite proud.”

            “How many have you met?” he asks you and in his words, you can hear that undercurrent, that subtext that only humans have. The unspoken were any special like me. 

            “I have met many,” you answer. “Saved many, but none lingered. I did not let them. Not after the Lost.”

            “The Lost?” he asks and you can feel yourself tense, the rippling of your strange body, made strange when you see the perfect imperfect nature of his. 

            “That is not a story for you,” you say and your pitch has changed, tightened. Deepened. “That is not a story that any one should know. Only I shall carry that burden. That mistake.”

            “It’s beautiful,” Bobby whispers, looking up at the sky, the one with the mimic of the Aurora Borealis. The one the researchers have called the Aurora Corealis. They think it’s more than it is, some strange hole in the Backrooms, but it’s not. 

            It’s one of your places, formed for a human that is long gone, but was the place she healed, grew, strengthened. Before she had to return. 

            You made it in the image she gave you. 

            “Tell me about you,” you say as you sink down onto the material both spiky and dewy, green and shadowed, the mimic of grass that you spent hours trying to make perfect. You stretch out, one hand joined with his even though this level has never, will never, be occupied by any entity, the other behind your head. 

            “Uh…okay,” he says, his body twisting closer to yours, head on your shoulder, his warmth and breath so strange, so foreign yet you want more and is that even proper for someone such as you. An entity. A creature. “I’m a film student and I want to be the next big thing but I know that it takes more than I have. It takes…it takes vision and that’s not me, but I love it. I do. I love looking at the world from the viewfinder. Everything’s safer and better that way.”

            “But it’s not true,” you whisper. “It’s a reflection not reality.”

            “I didn’t know that then,” he says. “But this place…I know that now.”

            “Who is this guy?” Bobby asks as the house of the Father draws into view. “Is he dangerous?”

            “He’s human,” you reply and you can hear as his breath hitches, grip tightens on you. It has been time, so much time with Bobby. Learning him and his quirks and his likes. Learning that even an entity can feel. That even an entity can love and be loved even if you wish that you couldn’t. That you didn’t know because how can you ever let him go when you know what it is like to be looked at the way he looks at you?

            “That doesn’t answer my question,” he counters and you turn to him with narrowed eyes, eyes he cannot see yet you know he understands. Can feel your gaze. 

            “He’s called the Father and is the one who holds…knowledge. He’s not dangerous…he’s scared of me for I am a variable that he knows nothing of,” you reply and your tone is arch, curt as you guide Bobby forwards, his arm slipping around your waist with ease. As if it was meant to be there. 

            You have held him as he cried, as he spoke of Kat and you have watched him grieve. You heard him tell you that nothing in his life had ever felt as right as you and he worried it made him a monster. 

            You told him it didn’t. You knew monsters and he was not one. In any capacity. 

            “Come in, Creator and your wandering boy,” calls the Father and you step forwards, pushing the wooden door open, the man sitting on a stool, eyes closed. He does not need to see to know. He can feel your presence, everything can. It’s a change in the levels, in the walls, in the very frequency and vibration of sounds and air. It knows who made it, who it was made for. 

            “I need answers.”

            “Of course you do, Creator. That is why you’re here. But what, precisely, do you seek?” Bobby steps closer to you, his hip digging into yours in a way that you used to wonder how humans found comfort it, but now understand. 

            “The boy I’m with was hidden from me. I could not sense him nor the others with him until they were gone from him. Why?” The Father opens his pale pink eyes, eyes that have changed, altered from the chemistry of the Backrooms, fixing on Bobby, his chest heaving when he looks at him, fright glimmering across the pink irises. 

            “The Backrooms Boy,” he whispers, rising, joints creaking as he steps forwards, his wizened hand gripping Bobby’s chin, tilting his face this way and that. “The human borne in the liminal. In the place creation does not belong. The human borne of destruction. The linchpin.”

            And everything changed when you hear his words, the echo of the past overriding the present. I don’t know much, but life in what is not life could…bring your memories back.

            How? In what way? In what form?

            A boy. One who will make you feel. The numbness may be why you don’t remember.

            Father…do you truly believe?

            More than I know.

            “Father,” you say now and he turns to you, nodding once and it’s like someone has stabbed you, ripped out your insides and left you hollow if such insides existed. Because for you, a creature formed of magic, of illusion, bound in ways that humans are not, no constraints of flesh and blood and bone, there is no inside. 

            But it feels like there is. 

            And that’s the dangerous part. 

            “You have to leave,” you tell Bobby now, knowing that you’ve held onto him far longer than you should have, that you’ve held on past what should have been because of the way he’s made you feel. You have to let go, you are not human, you are not built for this. 

            You are not built to love like them.

            “What?” he cries as you pull on him, tug on his hand, disappearing through a wall, the stickiness of the shifting substance lingering upon your skin, something you’ve never felt before. You drag him with you through wall and after wall, down floor after floor, until you reach the outpost. M.E.G inside, watching. 

            You wonder what they think, the researchers. If they’ve calculated odds of survival for Bobby, for your relationship. 

            Calculated how long before it broke.

            You wonder if you’ve exceeded expectations or fallen short. 

            “You have to leave,” you tell him, letting go of his hand as if it burns which in a way it does, the feeling of his calloused mortal hand on yours too much and not enough. You want to live, but you are something that cannot die and so you cannot really live. Liminal. 

            Just like your prison. 

            “Why?” he asks, his voice low, husky. Deep in a way that says he’s pained. Hurting. Angry. Too many emotions for such a small boy. 

            “You can’t stay,” you tell him. “This isn’t your world. You saw the Father. It changes you and I cannot in good conscience let you stay. I made that mistake once. Never again.” 

            It’s a testament to your immortality that you are able to remain as cool and calm as you are right now. 

            Because he’s not. 

            When you saved Bobby, he didn’t expect to feel anything for you except gratitude, but in between one moment and the next, your blurry beautiful figure became everything he needed, a rope around his heart, tying him to you. 

            His savior. 

            The Backrooms his salvation. You his guiding light. And he thought he’d have forever, live with you in the liminal for as long as it would let him. He didn’t think that you wouldn’t want him. 

            “I’m not leaving,” he says now and he wishes god he wishes he could see you. See what your eyes are doing exactly, see the way your mouth twists. He wants to read you but how can he read something he can never truly see. “I’m staying.”

            “You don’t decide that,” you say and you’re right in his head the way you always have been, the way he loves because he never can miss a word. It’s just there. How could he go a lifetime without you when you’ve opened his eyes? When you’ve made him live? Truly live. “I do. This is my prison, my world and I am telling to leave.”

            “I won’t leave alive,” he says and he can see even through the blurriness that you are angry. That you want him to go, but he doesn’t understand why. He told you that he loved you and you said it back, said it like a revelation, like something you’d never had before. 

            So, why are you sending him away now?

            “LEAVE, BOBBY!” you scream and it’s so loud, so painful that he buckles, falling to his knees, hands at his ears as he lets out a high, keening sound. One of pain, one of hurting. One of need. He needs your hand on him. Needs your touch. 

            You. He just needs you, his salvation, savior, desert oasis.

            “WHY? WHY DO YOU WANT ME TO LEAVE?!” he yells in reply and he watches as your figure ripples like water as it bends and laps against the shore, against itself, your body now in front of him, blurry and bright and painful to look at in all the best ways. 

            “Because you are my reckoning,” you tell him and your hand, your precious, cool water hand comes to rest on his cheek and he leans into your touch, aching for it, the pain receding because you’re holding him and he loves you. “You will bring it back.”

            “Bring what back?” 

            “My memories,” you whisper and it sounds like you’re crying and he reaches forwards, blindly, hoping he doesn’t poke you in the eye, wiping across your cheeks, wetness on the tips of his fingers. Tears. 

            “You’re crying,” he whispers, pulling one hand back to look at the gleaming, refracting light on his finger. “I didn’t know you could cry.”

            “I didn’t either,” you say and it’s a moment that you can’t come back from. The kind where everything changes whether you do what you want or not. Because whatever you do or don’t do, nothing will ever be the same again. 

            It’s why he leans forwards, his hands on your cheeks, pulling you closer, your blurry outline still blurry, but lips visible and he leans in, pressing his lips against yours in a kiss that feels infinite and endless and perfect. 

            Right in a way that nothing in his life ever has before. 

            You taste like water and hope and something sweet that he can’t name, your lips like water and skin in one and how perfect and peculiar and ever you. 

            It seems to last forever and yet no time at all before you’re pulling back and your mouth opens, moves as if you’re telling him something but he can’t hear it. 

            But you can. 

            Because it’s who you are. 

            I can see him, Destruction, ahead of me, my opposite force. We were close once, but I suppose all things are in the beginning when there is nothing and no one but the two forces of the universe that oppose and contrast and are never able to reach each other. 

            The universe was empty at first except for us. We didn’t have forms then, but rather simply were. We just existed. Funny, right?

            But I wanted more and I made planets and stars and matter. He destroyed it, kept in balance. I created, he destroyed. I am the force of Creation after all. 

            Earth was special when I made it watched as a world bloomed. Evolved. I was so proud, but Destruction didn’t appreciate it, sunk his claws in, destroyed things, separated my world into different corners. Made the plates shift as he changed what was under them. 

            It caused a fight. But neither of us can win because we are the opposite of the other and there is no besting your pure opposite. It ended with me making a room and this was all before you humans existed. I wanted to lock him away, knew it would work, but it’s also what works against me. 

            He tricked me. That’s why he’s here, looking at me. He knows he’s won. He knows he’s got me trapped, for eternity. 

            “This is your prison,” he says, reaching for my head, reaching for the centre of who I am and always will be. I can feel it, him in my head, destroying my memory. Destroying every piece of who I was, leaving only his last words, body moving, the final wall sliding into place. 

            I don’t know how long I’ll remember that; he set in to destroy it all. So…for a memory that may linger longer, I should repeat who I am, for me. 

            I am Creation. I am the force of the universe, the one that exists with Destruction. Together we made it all. A balance. 

            I am Creation and I will never be caged because I can make a way out. I can set it so that one day, something liminal will save me. Something liminal will bring back what was lost. Something liminal both creative and destructive will bring it back. 

            And once it does, all I will have to do is destroy that made of destruction. He sealed me in, created a cage. So, I must destroy it. 

            He destroyed the exits so I just need to create them. 

            Creation cannot be destroyed for destruction cannot be created. 

            I am Creation.