When I staggered to my feet, the pain was gone. Every ache, every stab of agony from my shoulder and knee had vanished like footprints in the rain. I felt... alive. More alive than I had before this nightmare began.
I blinked, taking in the ruined corridor. Blood-slick tiles, shattered glass, and the grotesque shape on the floor, her body, unnaturally still. My stomach twisted, dancing with adrenaline. I actually did it. I killed her.
But another thought crept in: the black smoke.
That cold tendril had plunged into my chest, and now I was whole. No pain. No limp. My arm hung straight and strong. The gash on my knee seemed gone, replaced by smooth skin. Whatever that smoke was, it healed me.
I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the rhythm of my pulse. Then I remembered: I hadn't had a drink in hours. Throat parched, I needed water.
First things first: find a fountain.
I limped toward the washrooms, each step light as though the world weighed less. No pain slowed me down. My legs felt springy, my breath deep and easy.
The hallway stretched before me, silent but for the soft hum of fluorescent lights. I passed classroom doors, their windows dark. I passed the art room—its door hanging open, the stench of blood and paint lingering. I hesitated, then moved on.
Water.
I reached the washroom and pushed the door open. The cool tile floor felt pleasant under my bare feet. I headed straight to the row of sinks.
Turning the tap, I cupped my hands and brought water to my lips. It was ice cold, shocking in its freshness. I drank until my throat burned with relief.
As I lowered my hands, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My face was streaked with blood and tears, but my eyes held something new, a hard edge, the resolve of someone who had stared into death and survived.
I splashed water on my face, letting the remnants of gore wash down the basin.
Now what?
I glanced back toward the corridor, toward the place where she lay.
The smoke, the voice...
I shook my head. First, strength. Then answers.
I squared my shoulders and stepped out of the washroom.
I did it. I actually ended her. My heart fluttered with both triumph and terror. She lies broken in that hallway, her endless cycle seemingly halted. Can I leave the school now? Will the loop finally break?
Doubt crept in. I closed my eyes and let the memory of that whispering smoke wash over me. Its cold promise of power... its healing touch. But maybe it wasn't real. Maybe I imagined it. I was exhausted, shaken—everything felt hazy. That voice, that sensation, it could've been a hallucination, just my brain trying to make sense of this madness.
A whisper left my lips, barely audible in the silence: "I miss my family."
Now that the monster is dead, maybe I can finally explore this place—and hopefully discover a way out of this nightmare.
I walked through the hallway and climbed the narrow staircase. My body moved easily, almost too easily. There was no ache, no throb from the shoulder that had once screamed in pain. Whatever that black smoke was, it had numbed me, dulled everything, made me feel light and unnaturally calm. Surely there's something useful up here.
Questions swirled in my mind. What was that letter? Who sent it, and to whom? Why was it here? What is this place really? It looks like my school, but it isn't. Even outside, I've been here only half a day, and yet I never saw sun or daylight. It's always nighttime. Am I trapped in another world, another dimension? If so, how do I get back?
Why me? What did I do to deserve this? I'm just a normal high school kid.
I exhaled deeply, the air rushing out like a defiant sigh. There's no use in complaining. I need to find a way to escape.
I need to find a light.
"A flashlight," I muttered, jaw clenched. This dim glow wouldn't cut it. I couldn't navigate these halls in near darkness.
I turned on my heel and retraced my steps downstairs, anywhere felt safer than fumbling around up here. Earlier, I'd spotted a flashlight in the janitor's room, tucked away on a dusty shelf by the mop bucket. I needed the keys I'd used to open the gate, but at least the loop hadn't swallowed the tool.
Heart pounding, I crept to the janitor's office door and eased it open. A wisp of stale, musty air drifted out. My footsteps were soft against the linoleum as I crossed the threshold, every shadow a potential threat.
Inside, the only sound was a faint drip from a leaky faucet. Cabinets lined the walls, and cleaning supplies cast odd silhouettes in the dim light. I scanned the room: shelves packed with bottles of bleach, mops standing guard.
Then I saw it, on the top shelf, half-hidden behind a stack of rags, a bright yellow flashlight. Relief washed over me like a cool breeze. It had survived the loop.
I reached up and grabbed it, feeling its weight reassuring in my palm. I clicked the button. The beam sputtered, weak at first, then flared to life. Yellow light cut through the gloom, revealing the grime and dents on the walls.
The batteries were low, buzzing softly, but it held steady. This will do.
Clutching the flashlight in one hand, I slipped back into the corridor. With this light, I could see. With this light, maybe I could find my way out
I searched for something useful. Now, with the flashlight, I could finally see clearly. Strangely, when I first entered this room during the initial loop, it had been so dark, I could barely make out anything. Back then, I only spotted the flashlight by sheer luck while fumbling around for the keys. But now, I had found it quickly, not instantly, but with far less effort.
Was it because I had already seen it before and subconsciously remembered where to look? Probably. Memory, even fractured and buried by fear, had a funny way of guiding your hands