The next room was small.
Too small.
Bare concrete walls pressed close on all sides, stained and chipped. The ceiling was barely taller than Miles' head, forcing him to hunch slightly. A single naked bulb swung overhead, flickering.
No vines. No glass. No surreal landscapes.
Just cold, hard nothingness.
Kayla hovered near the doorway, shivering.
At the far end of the room was a door — heavy, iron, locked tight.
Next to it, bolted to the wall, was a small metal box with a single keyhole.
Painted above it, in streaky red letters:
ONLY BLOOD OPENS THE DOOR.
Miles grimaced.
"No good ever comes from instructions written in blood."
Kayla said nothing. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
A moment later, the now-too-familiar ding echoed overhead.
The screen unfolded from the ceiling, displaying a new rule:
RULE #11: THE KEY MUST BE EARNED.
The metal box clicked once.
A small drawer slid open underneath it.
Inside — a scalpel.
Miles stared at it, feeling the shape of the situation forming in his mind.
The voice cooed sweetly:
"One of you must bleed enough to fill the basin beneath the keyhole. Only then will the Red Key reveal itself. Choose wisely, Detective. Bleed too little... and you must start again. Bleed too much... and you might not make it to the next room."
Kayla went even paler.
"I'll do it," she whispered immediately. "Let me. It's my fault we're here."
Miles shook his head.
"You won't survive it," he said bluntly. "You've already lost blood from the glass back there. You're weak."
"I can still—"
"No." His voice left no room for argument.
He stepped forward, picked up the scalpel.
It felt weightless and wicked in his hand.
He took a breath.
Rule #10.
The key must be earned.
He slit his own palm — deep, controlled.
Blood welled immediately, warm and thick.
Miles held his hand over the basin under the keyhole, watching the dark liquid pool inside.
The gauge next to it began to rise — a thin red line ticking upward like mercury in a thermometer.
Kayla stepped closer.
"You're crazy," she said hoarsely.
Miles gave a dry, humorless chuckle.
"You're just now noticing?"
The blood level in the basin rose steadily — halfway now.
The room spun a little. He ignored it.
Kayla reached toward him, hesitating.
"Let me at least... help."
Miles didn't pull away.
She tore a strip from her sleeve, wrapped it tight around his upper arm — a makeshift tourniquet to slow the bleeding.
The gauge ticked higher.
Higher.
Almost there—
CLUNK.
The box clicked open.
Inside: a small, jagged-edged key.
Rusty. Sharp.
Miles grabbed it with his uninjured hand, jamming it into the heavy iron lock.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then — with a shriek of metal — the door creaked open.
The air beyond it was colder still, filled with a low mechanical hum.
Miles turned back to Kayla.
"You coming?"
She hesitated — just for a fraction of a second.
But it was enough.
Miles' gut twisted.
That instinct again.
That wrongness.
He filed it away for later.
They didn't have the luxury of mistrust right now.
Together, they slipped through the doorway.
---
Meanwhile...
In the control room, the Watcher leaned forward eagerly.
"The detective bleeds," he said, savoring the words. "But does he know... he's been cut in more ways than one?"
The assistant swallowed thickly.
On the screens, a second set of rules began to flicker into existence — this time hidden from the players.
Secondary Rule Initiated:
Only One May Reach the End.
---
Miles' Timer: 39:20
(And somewhere, another clock began ticking... a clock only Kayla could hear.)