I need a weapon.
My mind repeated the mantra as I edged along the corridor, flashlight beam carving a path through dust motes and grime. The iron rod that had pierced that inhuman chest was gone, snapped in two during the struggle. Could I really rely on that fragment again? I shook my head.
"I'm just being careful," I muttered, trying to sound brave but probably just sounding like a kid talking to himself in the dark. Not scared… just cautious, I added, like that made it any better.
My shoulders tensed. Still inside the janitor's room, I scanned the dim corners and shelves littered with random tools and buckets. There had to be something in here. Anything. My breath came in shallow bursts as I tiptoed around mop handles, bleach bottles, and broken brooms, each creak of the floorboards a gunshot in the quiet. Every scuff on the wall and scratch on the door reminded me how unpredictable this place had become. I couldn't afford another misstep.
I swung the flashlight in a wide arc. There, leaning against the wall, The janitor's mop bucket, its handle removed. The bare handle lay nearby. My pulse fluttered.
The mop.
I picked up the handle and weighed it in my hand. It was lightweight, likely to shatter under force. But better than nothing. I snapped it across my knee. Wood splintered, snapping perfectly into two long pieces. One piece roughly three feet long, the other shorter.
I held the longer half like a staff, sanded smooth by years of mopping. It wasn't an iron rod. It wasn't a crowbar. But it had reach. It had heft. And it was all mine.
I tested its weight, pivoting, imagining a strike. My heart throbbed, but this time it was anticipation, not terror.
Alright, Ethan. Let's do this.
I turned down the hall toward the art room. Shadows clung to corners, but my flashlight cut them back. I passed the trophy cases, glass doors still intact, reflections dancing in the flicker of emergency lights. My reflection stared back: pale, blood-streaked, eyes hard as steel.
Inside the art room, broken cupboards and splintered wood littered the floor. Yes, this was not normal, this room didn't look this messy before. I was certain it had been clean earlier, back when I was searching for the flashlight. I swept my mop-staff aside, cautiously stepping over debris, taking in the grim aftermath of my first real fight. The floor was a grotesque canvas smeared with blood and chaos. At the far end, her body lay still, unmoving. The black smoke that once coiled around her had vanished completely.
Is it over?
I gripped the handle tighter, knuckles white under the makeshift bandage I'd fashioned. The wood felt solid, unwavering. I raised it overhead and practiced a few swings. The weight shifted pleasantly through my arms.
A shuffling from behind made me whip around. Nothing. Just the stench of blood and the hum of the lights.
I swallowed.
This weapon might save my life. Or end it.
No turning back.
Straightening my spine, I crept deeper into the room, eyes darting around for anything—anything—that might serve as a weapon. My flashlight beam wavered as my hands trembled, breath caught in my throat. And then I saw it: the iron rod. The same one I'd driven through her chest. It lay on the floor, glistening with a dark, crusted sheen. My stomach twisted at the sight, the memory of that moment flashing like a strobe behind my eyes.
I stepped closer, each footfall uncertain, as though the corpse might leap back to life at any moment. I couldn't tear my eyes from her body, twisted and crumpled like a discarded doll. Blood pooled beneath her, sticky and metallic in the air. The rod protruded from her side like some cursed relic.
Swallowing hard, I reached down with a shaking hand and pried the rod loose, wincing as it slid free with a sickening wet sound. My fingers trembled, revulsion climbing up my spine. I nearly dropped it right then, but forced myself to grip it tighter.
My footsteps echoed as I left the art room. I needed a plan. The exit gate lay at the front of the building, but the loop could reset at any moment. Maybe I could barricade the door. Maybe I could destroy the flickering lamp anchor.
My flashlight beam fell on the map pinned to the hallway bulletin board—an old floor plan of the school. My pulse quickened. There: a maintenance closet near the back stairwell.
Tools.
I hastened toward it. Each corridor felt endless, but finally I reached the metal door labeled "Maintenance." The key was in my pocket—the same one I got from the janitor's room.
I pushed open the maintenance door and switched the flashlight beam inside. What I saw made me stumble, a cavern of industrial tools and grimy equipment, half-empty cans of oil, tangled extension cords, and heavy-duty wrenches hanging on hooks like silent sentinels. This room was nothing like the tidy supply closets I'd known. It was a scrapyard of neglected machinery, strewn with rusted pipes and discarded parts. Dust motes danced in the weak light as I stepped in, heart pounding at the unexpected scale of it.
I moved deeper, flicking the beam across shelves crammed with salvaged materials. My pulse quickened when I spotted what I'd hoped for: a sturdy crowbar, its iron shaft pitted with age but still solid. I reached out, skirting past coils of thick cable and a half-open toolbox. My fingers wrapped around the crowbar's grip, this was more reliable than a snapped rod or a splintered mop handle.
Holding the crowbar felt like holding a promise of control. Relief washed over me, a brief respite from the terror that had defined every moment in this place. For the first time since the loop began, I dared to hope that I might actually get out alive.
I tucked the crowbar into my belt, its weight pressed warm against my side. With this in hand, I had a fighting chance.
I climbed the stairs, flashlight gripped tightly in one hand, the crowbar clutched in the other. Each step groaned beneath my feet, like a warning echoing through the silence. My breathing quickened, every inhale shaky and shallow. Then, a sharp noise snapped through the air, something metallic clattering in the distance, maybe? Or was it closer? My heart slammed into my ribs, deafening in the stillness. I froze, every muscle seizing, my skin prickling with sweat. The dim light wobbled as my hand trembled. Shadows danced along the walls like watching eyes. I didn't dare move. I didn't even blink. My body screamed to run, but my legs locked in place. Every second stretched like hours. The silence returned, but the damage was done, fear had already sunk its teeth in deep.
A rat skittered across the hallway.
Just a rat.
I exhaled shakily, relief washing over me in waves. But still, I couldn't help but stare after it, stunned. This was the first time I'd seen anything alive in this godforsaken place. Not just the first rat—anything living. For a moment, the sight felt like a miracle.