The cave did not rage when its first tactic failed.
It adapted. The fucking piece of rock took my memories from inside my mind, which, by the way, was supposed to be more secure than any treasure vault, or that's what the useless voice in my head had told me. The fact that the cave could still access my memories even after Bastard reassured me that it wouldn't happen frightened me.
That, more than anything else, terrified me.
The corridor did not change shape. The stone remained the same, dead black, the darkness still swallowing what little light I carried. My footsteps continued to echo, steady, rhythmic, proof that I was still moving forward and not trapped in some looping nightmare. But the air shifted, subtly, intelligently, like a mind recalibrating its approach.
Then the images began.
