Squirming and wriggling like a worm in mud, Finn finally slipped all the way through and dropped into the monster's throat. He landed with a disgusting squelch, the floor bending under his weight like half-rotten tissue.
It was warm. Too warm. Every breath came with the faint sound of pulsing ahead of him, like the creature's body was alive in ways it shouldn't be.
Groaning, Finn planted both hands on the floor and pushed himself up. Slime clung to his palms, stretching into sticky strings before snapping. The ground was wet, squishy, disturbingly springy—like a cross between wet earth and a clogged shower drain.
"This is so wrong," he muttered, wiping his hand on his shirt. Bad idea. Now he was more slimy.
He finally stood upright and looked around… only for his jaw to drop.
