Part 3Ground Floor Does Not Exist

We descended.

The light only reached a few steps ahead before the dark swallowed it whole. The sound of our footsteps echoed upward, bouncing off the concrete walls, mingling with the soft, rhythmic weeping of the girls.

The hair on my arms stood up. My legs were beginning to burn—a dull, throbbing ache in my calves and a grinding sensation in my knees. It felt like my blood was turning to lead.

Finally, someone broke.

It was Lily. She was a petite girl from the Linguistics department, someone I remembered seeing at the gym, always looking exhausted after just five minutes on the treadmill. She didn't have the stamina for this—physically or mentally.

She collapsed against the wall, burying her face in her hands. "I'm not moving. I can't. We’re never getting out. We’re going to die in here."

Her voice spiraled up the stairwell, a jagged, broken sound that threatened to snap what little remained of our composure. We stopped. No one spoke. The only sounds were the heavy, labored breathing of exhausted bodies and the oppressive silence of the building.

The guide turned around, his expression grim. "Shut it!"

"What good is crying?" he snapped. "You think your tears are going to shorten the stairs? You think an exit is going to manifest because you’re sad?" He looked at us, his eyes dark and unsettlingly intense. "You college kids… you have all the ego and none of the grit. You didn't even check the history of this place before you signed the waiver, did you?"

He gritted his teeth, leaning in. "Do any of you know the story behind this tenement?"