The corridors twisted around them like a maze, endless and suffocating. Every hallway looked the same: cracked tile floors, flickering neon signs, display cases shattered or empty. Sometimes Aven swore the walls themselves shifted, as though the museum were rearranging itself to trap them.
Rhea moved quickly, map in one hand, crystal device in the other. The faint blue glow lit the way, casting long shadows that jittered and writhed along the walls. Aven stumbled after her, clutching his burned hands to his chest, glancing nervously at every dark corner.
They passed exhibit rooms filled with half-built machines, sculptures made of twisted metal and bone, paintings that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking. Each one hummed faintly with static, as though the futures trapped inside were still screaming to get out.
"Don't touch anything," Rhea whispered. "These are failed blueprints—prototypes that warped themselves into something hungry. They feed on attention. On possibility."
Aven nodded, keeping his eyes on the floor. But even so, he felt them watching him. Broken machines twitched. Severed wires snaked across the ground like tendrils. Faint voices whispered at the edges of his hearing, promising salvation, revenge, a thousand futures he could never have.
They turned another corner and found a spiral staircase leading down into darkness. Rhea paused, checking the map. Her hand trembled.
"This should be the shortcut," she whispered. "But… it wasn't always here."
Aven frowned. "What do you mean?"
She shook her head. "The museum rewrites itself, Aven. It tries to keep the future it wants. Sometimes it offers paths… traps… illusions. We have to risk it."
Before he could argue, she started down the stairs. Aven followed, heart pounding.
The air grew colder with each step, until his breath puffed out in white clouds. The walls wept dark moisture, and the stairs creaked under their weight, groaning like old bones. Somewhere below, a soft mechanical whir echoed, like gears grinding in the dark.
Finally they reached a landing, where a single metal door stood half-open. Beyond it, a long hall stretched into shadow, lined with filing cabinets and rusted shelves stacked with old data drives, faded blueprints, reels of tangled film.
Rhea slipped inside first, sweeping the crystal light around. "This is part of the old archive," she breathed. "Records of futures never built. The museum's trash heap… and sometimes… its treasure vault."
Aven stepped in after her, shivering. The air felt thick, charged with static. He heard faint scratching noises, as though something was crawling inside the shelves, hunting.
Rhea moved quickly, checking each cabinet, yanking out drawers, scanning papers. Aven helped, though he had no idea what they were looking for.
"What exactly do we need?" he whispered.
Rhea's eyes flicked to him, hollow with exhaustion. "A blueprint for the museum's core architecture. If we can find it… we can map the weak points. Maybe even trigger a collapse."
A crash echoed in the distance—metal shrieking on metal. Aven froze. Rhea grabbed his sleeve.
"They're coming," she hissed.
Suddenly the lights overhead flickered, then died. Darkness swallowed the hall. Aven heard the whispers grow louder, a chorus of broken voices overlapping in the pitch black.
He raised his hands blindly. "Rhea—!"
Her grip tightened on his arm. He felt her pull him into one of the shelves, pressing him against the cold metal as shapes moved past them in the dark.
The echoes shuffled by, half-seen, glitching bodies phasing in and out of focus. Their blank faces turned slowly, searching. Aven held his breath, heart thudding so loud he thought they'd hear it.
One of them stopped inches away, head tilting, mouth opening in a silent, jagged scream. Static hissed from its throat, rattling the shelves. Then it turned and drifted on.
Rhea exhaled softly, her forehead pressed to his. "We have to move," she whispered.
She slipped past him, following the faint blue glow of her dying crystal. They crept deeper into the archive, weaving through shadows and shelves. Aven's knees shook, his burned hands throbbing with every heartbeat.
Finally Rhea stopped at a dented metal cabinet, yanking it open. Inside was a rolled blueprint, edges blackened and torn. She snatched it out, unrolling it quickly.
Aven saw lines and circles, sprawling across the paper like a madman's scribble. Faint letters marked the points: CORE NODE, MEMORY VAULT, CONTROL TOWER.
"This is it," Rhea breathed. "The old central framework. We can—"
A shriek cut her off. The echoes had found them.
They lunged from the dark, glitching bodies twitching, black mist trailing from outstretched hands. Rhea shoved the blueprint into Aven's arms.
"Run!" she screamed.
He turned and bolted, clutching the paper, as the echoes tore through the shelves behind him. Rhea swung her crystal blade, its light flaring blue-white, cutting through the first wave. But more poured in, shrieking.
Aven didn't look back. He ran, map clutched to his chest, as the museum dissolved into chaos behind him.