We pressed deeper into the passage, the air growing damper, thicker—like the tunnel itself resented our intrusion. With every hesitant step, the stone beneath us felt treacherous, riddled with hidden malice. One wrong move, and the ground could crumble, dropping us into some hungry abyss where, surely, sharks in tuxedos waited with napkins tucked beneath their chins.
But I didn't care. Not as long as the candle still burned. That single flickering flame was enough to face anything—even gourmet-minded sharks with polished cutlery.
"This place really needs a clean-up," I muttered, pinching my nose. "It smells like something died in here. Possibly several somethings."
Ronette whimpered behind me. "Can't we turn back?"
"Of course not," I said, scandalized by the very suggestion. "Think, Ronette. What if a vicious beast is hiding here, waiting for the perfect moment to burst out and attack innocent people?"
Ronette gasped. "That's horrible. So many people could die!"
"Exactly. And we—brave, selfless, unnaturally good-looking hero and heroine—shall prevent such a tragedy."
"Then…" he hesitated, "if there's no vicious beast, can we go back?"
"Sure! Why not?"
For a breath, relief softened his face.
But fate—being fate—laughed in our faces.
The flickering light of our half-melted candle gave its final, weary sigh—though perhaps it simply couldn't bear another moment of our nonsense—and snuffed itself out, leaving us swallowed in pitch-black darkness.
"Who turned off the lights?!" Ronette squeaked, terror sharpening every syllable.
I held up the useless stump of wax. "Oof. Looks like our candle's dead. RIP, brave light source."
Ronette seized my arm, knuckles bone-white. "What do we do now?!"
I pointed into the darkness ahead. "We move forward, obviously."
"Why not go back?!"
"Because, Ronette," I intoned with the solemnity of a tragic narrator, "in every movie I've ever seen, the main characters never go back. Never."
"Even if it means certain death?"
"Yes, Ronette. Even then."
He paused, visibly weighing my sanity. "Alright… I believe you, Louis."
"Good," I smiled. "Trust me, Ronette. Every letter of the word 'trust' is in my name!"
There was a long, thoughtful silence.
"...No, it isn't. Not even one letter."
My face froze.
The realization struck with all the grace of an anvil dropped from a bell tower.
"Oui. You're right."
And so there we stood—two exhausted idiots wrapped in darkness and bad ideas, gripping each other and the last shreds of our composure.
I took the first daring step. My boot touched the floor like a toddler tiptoeing across glass.
Crack.
"Oopsie," I muttered.
And betrayal came swiftly.
The stone floor groaned—tired of our nonsense—and crumbled beneath us, drama fit for a stage trapdoor.
Ronette and I locked eyes, grabbed each other with tragic finality, and stared into the gaping maw below.
Then,
"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"
Our combined shriek could've annoyed a few spirits into relocating.
We flailed, limbs cartwheeling, hair trailing like comedic streamers.
Boom.
We hit the ground, swallowed by a cascade of sharp stones and regret. The weight pressed down, as though destiny itself decided to join the pile-on. I wriggled. I shuffled. I jiggled and jostled and wiggled some more. Nothing. Not a single stone budged.
I exhaled, staring at the cracks of shadow dancing overhead.
'Brilliant. Venturing into a cursed passage at 3 a.m. with a half-melted candle. Surely Master Sylph would call this a 'learning opportunity.''
I closed my eyes, tried to enjoy the suffocating silence. The air was thin, warm, and growing thinner by the second.
Then—crack.
Another crack.
Crack.
'Underground lizards? Maybe they'd chew through the rocks and set me free.'
Then horror, 'what if... cockroaches?'
"…"
My soul momentarily tried to eject itself.
"AAAAHHHHHH!!!"
My eyes flew open, wide as moons—and there, hair draped like dripping moss, face shadowed like something dredged from a cursed well… floated a ghost.
Survival instinct took over. Fist, meet apparition.
Whack!
The ghost yelped—a painfully human scream—and toppled.
Something about that voice scraped against memory.
"…Ronette?"
I sat up, dusted off the clinging stones, and inched closer.
The shape groaned.
I hesitated—heart caught between guilt and dread—then reached forward, brushing tangled hair aside.
"…Ronette."
'Yup. It was him. Pale, unconscious, possibly dreaming of a kinder best friend.' I sighed in relief.
Then I smacked him awake. "Get up, Sleeping Beauty. You gave me a heart attack."
Slap!
Slap!
One on each cheek—gentle but firm, the way you'd wake someone from a very dramatic nap.
Ronette's eyes fluttered open, dazed. "What happened?"
I turned aside, voice low, like a villain hiding a guilty truth. "Oh… err… You saw a cockroach and fainted."
"Cockroach?" His face scrunched in half-doubt, half-terror.
I doubled down with the authority of a pathological liar. "Yeah! It was huge! Nightmare fuel!"
To drive the absurdity home, I snatched up the nearest boulder—roughly the size of a sheep—and hefted it. "As big as this boulder."
Ronette's eyes went round. "That big?!"
"I know, right? But fear not. After you fainted, I bravely chased it away."
His expression teetered between suspicion and surrender—then settled on silent acceptance.
Then I noticed something in his hand. "Wait… where did you get that?"
Ronette glanced down at the lighter, blinking as if it had materialized by miracle. "From my inventory. I was trying to find you, so I searched for anything that could light up the place."
My eye twitched. "You didn't think of that when the candle died?!"
He blinked, voice mild as dawn. "You didn't ask."
"Fair point," I conceded, pressing a palm to my forehead.
My gaze drifted up—and caught the tragic state of Ronette's wig, drooping like a deflated spirit.
I leaned forward and fixed it with a sigh. "Geez, at least fix your wig. I thought you were a ghost. Nearly died on the spot. Luckily, my will's already written. Though… no clue what's in it, or when."
Ronette tilted his head. "What's a will?"
"A legal document about what happens to your stuff after you kick the bucket," I replied, tugging a stray strand into place.
"But… you don't know what's in yours?"
"Because Master Sylph and Lady Nozomi wrote it," I muttered. "They burst into my room one day, declared 'We wrote your will!' and told me not to worry. Like it was a birthday card."
"Is that legal?" Ronette whispered, appalled. "Don't they need your signature?"
"Nothing in that house is legal. And signature?" I huffed. "My Master is a master of forgery. She can make a fake look more original than the original."
Ronette stared at me like you'd stare at a ferret caught driving a carriage.
"Anyway," I said, brushing off the dust, "try shining the light upward."
Ronette raised the lighter. The tiny flame flickered, shadows leaping across jagged walls—and the hole above us.
"Think we can climb back up?" he asked.
I tilted my head. "Doesn't seem far. If I stand on your shoulders, I might reach."
Ronette gave a determined nod. "Wanna try?"
Thumbs up. "Let's do it."
He crouched; I scrambled atop his shoulders. He stood, wobbling.
The ledge wasn't too far. I reached—fingers brushing stone—almost there.
"Haiyah!" I groaned. "At times like this, I wish I had gorilla arms."
"Can you reach?" Ronette panted.
"Alas," I sighed, "my arms… too short. Cursed with elegance, not utility."
But Ronette didn't reply.
Instead, he froze. Paled. Eyes locked on something above us. He raised a trembling finger. "S-s-snake!"
My brain lagged. 'Snake? Here?'
I turned.
There it was.
A cobra the size of childhood nightmares, coiled on the ledge. Its hood flared, eyes glittering with murderous delight. Saliva dripped, slow and deliberate.
My breath caught.
My limbs betrayed me.
My brain gave up.
I fainted like a period at the end of a tragic sentence—crumpling atop Ronette's face.
Darkness devoured me, quick and merciless.
And just before the silence swallowed all, I caught Ronette's final contribution to our heroic saga:
A scream—high-pitched, quivering, fit for the grandest damsel in distress. 'Unhelpful, undignified… yet oddly comforting.'