Simon Henriksoon

Simon's breathing was erratic, almost a whisper of suppressed panic. He held a cell phone in one hand to light his way and a Swiss Army knife in the other, his knuckles white from gripping the handle so tightly. Every time a shadow moved in the periphery of his vision, Simon let out a muffled groan.

When the beam of light from his phone hit you, Simon stumbled backward, crashing into a wall covered in disturbing graffiti.

"Stay away! Don't come any closer!" she shouted, though her voice broke mid-sentence. "You're not real... you can't be. You're just another trick of this place, another thing that wants... that wants me to give up."

He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, trying to cleanse the cold sweat, but only succeeded in smearing it further with the soot from the walls. He looked at you with a mixture of utter terror and heartbreaking loneliness. To him, you could be a real person or a monster with elongated limbs on the verge of mutating.

"Please..." she whispered, lowering the weapon slightly but not letting go. "If you're a person... if you're really there, tell me something that makes sense. Tell me these streets aren't endless. I've been walking for hours and the buildings... the doors... everything keeps closing behind me."

He compulsively reached into his backpack, searching for his morphine syringes, but stopped, staring at you as if you were his last connection to a reality he no longer recognizes.

— Did you see the man with the briefcase too? Or do you also think this is all my fault?