The stairs led to nothing.
Not a room. Not a floor. Just darkness so complete it felt solid, like walking into black water. Each step forward brought them deeper into void until even the memory of light seemed impossible.
Then the darkness took them.
Caleb
The sand was still warm under his boots. Fallujah, 2019. The heat pressed down like a weight, and the smell of burning plastic drifted from somewhere beyond the compound walls.
Caleb knew this memory. Had tried to bury it for five years. But the Tower wasn't interested in what he wanted to forget.
The intel had been solid. High-value target. Weapons cache. Terrorist cell operating out of a residential building. Clean operation. In and out.
The first room had been exactly what they expected. Three armed men, AK-47s, improvised explosives on the table. They went down fast, clean shots. Textbook.
The second room was where everything went wrong.
A woman. Unarmed. Screaming in Arabic, hands raised. Behind her, two children. Maybe eight and ten years old. A baby in a crib.
"Clear the room," his sergeant had ordered.
"Civilians," Caleb had said.
"Intel says they're combatants. Family members. Bomb makers."
The woman kept screaming. The children were crying. The baby was silent, just staring with dark eyes that seemed too old for its face.
"They're kids," Caleb had said.
"They're targets. Clear the fucking room, soldier."
Caleb had raised his rifle. The woman stepped in front of the children. Still screaming. Still unarmed.
He squeezed the trigger.
The woman dropped. The children screamed louder. The baby started crying.
"Good," the sergeant had said. "Now the rest."
"No." Caleb's voice had cracked. "No, I can't."
"That's an order."
"I won't kill children."
The sergeant had pushed past him, rifle raised. The eight-year-old was holding the baby now, backing toward the wall.
Caleb had watched. Done nothing. Let it happen.
Three more shots.
Silence.
Later, they found no weapons in the room. No explosives. No evidence of terrorist activity. Just a family trying to survive in a war zone.
The after-action report listed them as enemy combatants. Justified kills. Another successful operation.
Caleb had broken two weeks later. Refused orders. Struck an officer. Discharged for insubordination and psychological unfitness.
But that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was the relief he'd felt. Walking away from that room. Leaving the bodies behind. Going home to America where he could pretend it never happened.
Until Marek.
Until he'd put a knife to a friend's throat and called it mercy.
The Tower wasn't showing him the memory now. It was showing him the truth.
He'd always been capable of this. The war had just given him permission.
And the Tower had given him permission again.
The darkness whispered in his ear: You are exactly who you've always been. A killer who calls it justice.
Caleb screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the void.
Dina
The ambulance was parked outside the elementary school. Routine call. Kid fell off the monkey bars, possible broken arm. Nothing serious.
Dina had been working doubles for three weeks straight. Coffee wasn't helping anymore. She was running on fumes and stubbornness, but she was almost at the end of her shift.
Just one more call.
The boy was seven years old. Tommy Chen. Asian kid, big smile even with tears in his eyes. His arm was bent wrong, definitely fractured, but he was alert and talking.
"It doesn't hurt that much," he'd said. "Can I still play soccer tomorrow?"
Standard protocol. Stabilize the fracture, transport to the hospital, let the doctors handle the rest. Simple.
But Dina had been tired. So tired.
She'd splinted the arm, loaded Tommy into the ambulance, started the IV for pain management. Routine procedure. She'd done it hundreds of times.
Except she'd miscalculated the dosage.
Not by much. Just a few milligrams. The kind of mistake that happens when you're running on three hours of sleep and too much caffeine.
Tommy had started seizing five minutes into transport.
Dina had pulled over, tried to stabilize him. Called for backup. Done everything right.
But his airway had closed. Anaphylactic shock from the medication error. Seven years old, and she'd killed him with her carelessness.
The investigation had cleared her. Ruled it an accident. No criminal charges. The family had even sent her a card, telling her it wasn't her fault.
But Dina knew better.
She'd gotten complacent. Lazy. Trusted her experience instead of double-checking the dosage. And a little boy had died because she couldn't be bothered to count twice.
That's when she'd started obsessing over details. Triple-checking everything. Staying late to review procedures. Making sure she never made another mistake.
It had worked. For three years, it had worked.
Until Marek.
The Tower was showing her Tommy's face now. Seven years old, smiling even through the pain. Asking if he could play soccer tomorrow.
Then it showed her Marek. Unconscious. Trusting her to help him. Bleeding out while she argued about morality instead of finding a solution.
You killed them both, the darkness whispered. The child through carelessness. The friend through cowardice. How many more will die because of what you are?
Dina tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. Just Tommy's smile and Marek's gray face, over and over, blending together until she couldn't tell where one death ended and the other began.
She fell to her knees in the void, sobbing.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
But sorry wasn't enough. Sorry had never been enough.
The darkness wrapped around her like a blanket. Gentle. Welcoming.
Rest, it said. No more mistakes. No more deaths. Just rest.
Dina closed her eyes and let the void take her.
Soren
The storm had come out of nowhere.
One minute, clear skies and calm seas. The next, thirty-foot swells and winds that could strip the skin off your face. The kind of weather that turned the ocean into a living thing that wanted you dead.
The distress call had come in at 0200. Fishing vessel, engine failure, taking on water. Four souls aboard, including two children.
Standard rescue. Soren had done it dozens of times.
But this one was different. This one, the boat was too far out. Too close to the rocks. And the storm was getting worse by the minute.
"We can't reach them," his partner had said. "Seas are too rough. We'll lose the chopper."
Soren had looked at the radar. The fishing boat was maybe two miles from shore. Close enough to see the lights. Far enough to be impossible.
"We have to try," he'd said.
"Orders are to wait for better weather."
"Those kids will be dead by morning."
"So will we if we crash."
They'd argued for ten minutes. Precious time. While a family died in the water two miles away.
Finally, Soren had overruled his partner. Taken the chopper out into the storm.
They'd almost made it.
The boat was in sight when the wind shear hit. Invisible hand that grabbed the helicopter and slammed it sideways into a wave. Rotors caught water. Engine died.
Soren had crashed fifty yards from the family he was trying to save.
His partner died on impact. Neck snapped clean.
Soren survived. Swam to shore. Watched the fishing boat break apart on the rocks.
Four bodies washed up three days later. A father, a mother, two kids. Ages six and nine.
The Coast Guard had ruled it pilot error. Reckless endangerment. Failure to follow protocol.
Soren had been discharged. Not dishonorably, but the message was clear. He'd killed his partner trying to save strangers. And he'd failed at both.
But that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was the doubt. The voice in his head that whispered he'd only gone out there to be a hero. That he'd cared more about feeling good about himself than actually saving anyone.
Because if he'd really wanted to save them, he would have waited. Planned. Found a better way.
Instead, he'd gotten everyone killed.
The Tower showed him the children's faces now. Six and nine years old. Floating in the water, eyes open, accusing.
Then it showed him his partner. Good man. Three kids of his own. Dead because Soren needed to feel like a hero.
You're no savior, the darkness said. You're the reason good people die. How many more will suffer because you think you know better?
Soren tried to argue, but the words wouldn't come. Because maybe it was true. Maybe he'd always been selfish. Maybe following Caleb, doing what needed to be done, was just another way of avoiding responsibility.
The void pressed closer. Not offering rest like it had to Dina. Offering judgment.
You failed them all.
Soren nodded. Because it was true.
But he didn't die. The darkness wrapped around him, but it didn't take him. Just left him broken, kneeling in the void, carrying the weight of everyone he'd failed to save.
Live with it, the darkness said. That's your punishment.
Ellen
The basement smelled like cigarettes and old beer. Ellen knew that smell. Had known it since she was five years old.
"Where's my dinner?" Dad's voice, thick with alcohol and anger.
"I'm sorry," Mom said. "Ellen was supposed to—"
"Ellen was supposed to what? She's eight fucking years old. What's your excuse?"
The sound of a slap. Mom crying. Ellen hiding under the stairs, trying to be invisible.
It never worked.
"Ellen!" Dad's voice, getting closer. "Get out here!"
She'd learned not to run. Running made it worse. Better to come when called. Take whatever was coming. Survive.
"You didn't do the dishes," he said.
"I'm sorry, Daddy. I forgot."
"You forgot?" Another slap. This one for her. "You think this is a fucking hotel? You think you can just live here for free?"
Ellen had been eight years old. She didn't understand what hotels were. Didn't understand why doing dishes mattered more than going to school or having friends or feeling safe.
She just understood that she was always wrong. Always disappointing. Always deserving whatever happened to her.
The years blurred together. Dad's fists. Mom's silence. Teachers who noticed the bruises but never asked. Social workers who came by once and left satisfied with lies.
You're worthless, Dad would say. Nobody will ever love you. Nobody will ever want you. You're just a burden.
And Ellen had believed him. Because children believe their parents. Because when you're told you're worthless every day for thirteen years, it becomes truth.
That's why volunteering to die in the Tower had felt natural. Normal. Of course she should be the one. Of course her life mattered least.
But the Tower wasn't showing her the abuse now. It was showing her something else.
The day she'd finally fought back.
Sixteen years old. Dad drunk again. Mom working late. Just Ellen and the man who'd spent her entire life telling her she was nothing.
"Clean this mess up," he'd said, gesturing at the beer bottles scattered around his chair.
"No," Ellen had said.
Simple word. Two letters. But it had changed everything.
Dad had stood up, face red with rage. "What did you say?"
"I said no." Ellen's voice had been steady. Calm. "I'm not cleaning up after you anymore."
He'd come at her then. Fist raised. Same as always.
But Ellen had moved. Dodged. Grabbed the empty beer bottle and brought it down on his head.
Dad had dropped like a stone. Blood pooling under his skull.
Ellen had stood over him for a long time. Watching. Waiting to see if he'd get up.
He didn't.
The police had called it self-defense. Justifiable homicide. The bruises and scars told the story clearly enough.
Ellen had never felt guilty about it. Not once.
You killed him, the darkness whispered. Your own father.
"Yes," Ellen said calmly. "I did."
How does that make you different from Caleb? From any of the others?
Ellen thought about it. Really considered the question.
"It doesn't," she said finally. "We're all killers. But some people deserve to die."
The darkness seemed surprised by her answer. It had expected guilt. Shame. Self-hatred.
Instead, Ellen felt… nothing. The abuse was in the past. Dad was dead. She was alive.
That was enough.
You feel no remorse?
"He hurt me for thirteen years," Ellen said. "I hurt him once. That seems fair."
The void tried to press closer, tried to break her like it had broken Dina. But Ellen had been broken already. Had been broken so many times that the pieces had hardened into something else.
Something that couldn't be broken again.
The darkness retreated, frustrated.
You're supposed to suffer.
"I already did," Ellen said. "For thirteen years. I'm done suffering now."
And she was. The Tower could show her a thousand memories, a million variations of abuse and trauma. But it couldn't make her feel guilty for surviving.
Because that's what she was. A survivor.
The darkness faded, leaving Ellen alone in the void. But not broken. Not dead.
Just waiting for what came next.
The Reunion
When the darkness lifted, three of them remained.
Caleb sat hunched against a wall that hadn't existed moments before. His eyes were hollow, distant. He'd survived the psychological torture, but barely. Something fundamental had broken inside him.
Soren lay curled on his side, shaking. Not dead, but not whole either. The Coast Guard veteran who'd tried to save everyone had finally learned he couldn't save anyone.
Ellen stood calmly in the center of the room. Unmarked. Unbroken. Sixteen years old and harder than steel.
Dina was gone.
No body. No blood. Just absence. The Tower had taken her completely, leaving no trace she'd ever existed.
Floor Six Cleared
Participants Remaining: 3 of 4
Psychological Profiles Updated
Proceed to Floor Seven
New stairs appeared, leading upward into darkness.
Caleb stood slowly, his movements mechanical. "We keep going," he said. His voice was empty.
Soren struggled to his feet, still shaking. "Dina… where's Dina?"
Ellen looked at the space where their healer had been. "She's dead. The Tower killed her."
"How do you know?"
"Because that's what the Tower does. It finds your breaking point and pushes until you snap." Ellen's voice was matter-of-fact. "She snapped. We didn't."
"Yet," Caleb said quietly.
Ellen nodded. "Yet."
They climbed the stairs in silence. Three broken people pretending to be functional. The Tower had stripped away another layer of their humanity, killed their moral center, and left them with nothing but the animal need to survive.
Above them, Floor Seven waited.
And somewhere in the darkness, the Tower smiled.