John groggily came awake, his head pounding like a war drum. The cold stone beneath him seeped into his bones, and the damp air carried the sour scent of mold. He blinked against the dim light, his vision swimming as he tried to focus. His body ached from exhaustion, and when he shifted, he realized he had been covered with a tattered blanket.

  A deep voice broke through the haze. “He’s awake, Kaia.”

  John turned his head to see Thorin sitting against the far wall, his face shadowed in the low light. Kaia was kneeling nearby, concern etched into her expression.

  “Where are we?” John asked, his voice hoarse.

  Kaia and Thorin exchanged a look before Kaia answered. “The undead army brought us here. We don’t know exactly where ‘here’ is, but it’s underground. Some kind of dungeon.”

  John groaned as he sat up, rolling his shoulders. “How long was I out?”

  “A few hours,” Thorin said.

  John absently patted his pockets, searching for the familiar weight of his daggers—only to find nothing. His stomach sank. “They took our belongings.”

  Kaia nodded. “Everything.”

  “Great,” John muttered.

  Stretching his legs, he felt something small in his pocket. Frowning, he reached in and pulled out the mysterious ring they had found in the lab. The sight of it made his stomach tighten.

  Kaia, who had been watching with curiosity, stiffened in alarm. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Why didn’t they take that?”

  John stared at the ring, his fingers gripping it tightly. “Good question.”

  A cold sensation crept up his spine. The ring, dark and unassuming, had an unsettling aura to it. He could almost feel it pulsing in his palm, like a heartbeat.

  Kaia’s face was pale. “I don’t like that at all, John. I can feel the evil in it.”

  John nodded slowly. “Yeah, I get it. This thing definitely gives me the Wiggins. But still… maybe it’ll be useful.”

  He studied it for a moment longer—perhaps too long—before shoving it back into his pocket. “Besides, do we really want these assholes to get their hands on a cursed object of dubious power?”

  Kaia hesitated but eventually sighed. “I still don’t trust it.”

  Thorin scratched his beard. “John’s got a point. We don’t need anything making Tiffany more powerful.”

  Kaia scowled but relented.

  John pushed himself to his feet, stretching out the stiffness in his limbs, and walked to the heavy wooden door. It was thick and reinforced with iron bands. He ran his fingers over the structure, inspecting the hinges. A metal slot at the bottom was likely used for sliding in food and water. The lock was large, set into the wood, and when he squinted through the keyhole, he caught a glimpse of a long, dark corridor with other doors lining both sides.

  A faint glow caught his attention. Focusing, he activated his interface.

  Lock: Pickable. Requires pick.

  John sighed. “Of course.”

  Frustrated, he reared back and kicked the door hard. It made a dull thud.

  Laughter erupted from the other side. A voice, low and mocking, echoed through the wood. “Oh, you’re awake. Good. I was starting to think you might sleep through your execution.”

  John rolled his eyes. “Execution? Come on, that’s a little dramatic, don’t you think? I feel like we should get a trial first. Maybe a stern talking-to?”

  More laughter, this time from multiple voices. Footsteps approached, slow and deliberate. A shadow blocked the dim torchlight seeping through the keyhole.

  “You’re funny. I wonder if you’ll still be joking when Mistress Tiffany carves you apart.”

  John shot a look at Kaia and Thorin. “Mistress Tiffany? Is she a dominatrix? Oh no is this her creepy love dungeon?”

  Kaia groaned, rubbing her temples. “John, must you antagonize them?”

  “Must? No. But will I? Absolutely.”

  A sharp rap on the door silenced their exchange. “Enjoy your last hours. You’ll be seeing her soon.” The footsteps retreated, laughter fading into the distance.

  John exhaled through his nose, tapping his fingers against the wooden surface. “Well, that’s encouraging.”

  Thorin crossed his arms. “We need to get out of here. You’re the rogue, John. Any bright ideas?”

  John motioned toward the lock. “I could pick this, but the only thing I still have is a cursed ring, but I doubt it’s gonna be much help with this.”

  Kaia shuddered. “I still don’t like that you have it.”

  “Noted,” John said, turning back to the door. “But unless you can magic us out, we’re stuck.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Thorin rubbed his jaw. “We should at least test if it’s weak. Maybe we can force it.”

  John nodded, stepping aside. Thorin took a deep breath and slammed his shoulder into the wood. The door barely rattled. He tried again, harder this time. Nothing.

  Kaia winced. “That’s not budging.”

  John set to work searching the dungeon cell. His fingers traced along the rough stone walls, feeling for any irregularities. A hidden panel, a loose brick—anything. The door was solid, the floor cold and unyielding. The only thing of note was the rusty metal food slot at the base of the door, but without proper tools, it wouldn’t do much good.

  Frustration bubbled up inside him as he dropped onto the floor, exhaling hard. The weight of the ring in his pocket pressed against his leg. He pulled it out, rolling it between his fingers.

  “You know,” he said, turning the ring over in his palm, “I could put this on and see what it does. Maybe it’ll give me super strength or something.”

  Kaia gasped and darted across the room, grabbing John’s shoulders. “John, do not put that on. It’s dangerous.”

  He looked up at her, meeting her wide, worried eyes. The urgency in her voice was enough to make him hesitate. He took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah, okay. You’re right.”

  Kaia exhaled, shaking her head in exasperation. As she did, a faint blue glow shimmered in her hair.

  John’s eyes widened. “Kaia! Your hair—”

  She patted at it frantically. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “No, not your hair—your hair clip! Give it to me”

  Confused, Kaia reached up and pulled a small metal clip from her hair, handing it to him. As soon as John took it, his interface flickered to life.

  Metal Hair Clip – Common

  Can be used as a makeshift lockpick.

  John grinned, holding it up like a prized treasure. “Yes! Kaia, you just saved the day.”

  Kaia blinked, then huffed. “You mean my hair clip did.”

  John waggled it between his fingers. “Hey, you were wearing it. That counts.”

  Thorin clapped his hands together. “Well? What are you waiting for? Get that door open.”

  John turned to the lock, his grin widening. “Now, let’s see if I still remember how to do this.”

  As John approached the heavy wooden door, he froze. Footsteps echoed from the corridor beyond. He quickly turned back, moving swiftly to his spot against the damp stone wall. Sliding the hair clip into his boot, he sat down just as the metal slot at the base of the door screeched open.

  A chipped clay jug filled with murky brown water was shoved through, followed by a dented metal tray carrying moldy bread and an unidentifiable gray gruel. The slot slammed shut.

  Thorin leaned forward, sniffed, and immediately recoiled. "Even I have standards."

  Kaia grimaced. “This is disgusting.”

  John frowned at the slop, then stood and pounded his fist against the door. “Hey, you maggot ridden lackey! What is this garbage? I wouldn’t feed this to a dog, let alone a highly esteemed prisoner such as myself!”

  A raspy voice from the other side shouted back. "Eat it or starve, meat sack!"

  John sneered. “Oh, come on, even prison food should at least be food! This violates the Geneva Convention!”

  Thorin raised a brow. “What’s that?”

  John sighed. “Rules for war. No torturing prisoners, no war crimes, and most importantly, no feeding them moldy bread.”

  The voice behind the door growled. “I’ll be right back, you ungrateful bastard.”

  John smirked, crossing his arms. “Yeah, you do that.”

  A moment later, the door slammed open, revealing two figures. One was a tall skeleton wearing cracked spectacles, its bony fingers clutching a clipboard. The other was a short, bloated creature with too much sagging skin, covered in open sores.

  The skeleton adjusted its glasses. “I hear complaints about our culinary excellence.”

  John threw his arms in the air. “Oh, you must be the head chef! Listen, buddy, I hate to break it to you, but your food is a crime against nature.”

  The grotesque creature wobbled forward, jabbing a slimy finger in the air. “That gruel recipe has been in my family for centuries!”

  John snorted. “What, your undead family? Because it tastes like something that’s been rotting for that long.”

  The skeleton huffed. “It’s perfectly edible.”

  “Yeah, if you have no taste buds and a death wish.”

  The argument escalated into a ridiculous debate about “refined undead palates” versus “living taste standards.” Kaia and Thorin watched in stunned amusement as John continued to hurl increasingly absurd culinary insults.

  Finally, the two creatures threw up their hands. “Fine! If you don’t appreciate our cooking, we’ll bring you the worst things we can make”

  With that, they stomped off, slamming the door behind them.

  Kaia turned to John. “What exactly are you doing?”

  John leaned back smugly. “Throwing them off balance. Being a dick in general. They’re going to sacrifice us anyway, might as well try to create an opening.”

  Moments later, the chefs returned, grinning triumphantly. They wheeled in a silver tray, uncovering a meal that looked like it belonged in a five-star restaurant. A perfectly cooked beef Wellington sat atop a bed of roasted fingerling potatoes, all drizzled with a rich demi-glace. A bottle of fine red wine accompanied the spread.

  John’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Oh no! Not that! Please, anything but delicious, perfectly cooked food! I beg you, spare us this torment!”

  The chefs cackled. “That’s what you get for insulting our cooking! Enjoy your punishment, human!”

  Laughing, they left and locked the door behind them.

  Thorin and Kaia stared at the meal in disbelief.

  Kaia slowly turned to John. “How… how did you know that would happen?”

  John grinned, grabbing a knife. “I was just being an asshole.”

  The three companions enjoyed their "last meal" in high spirits, and as soon as it was done, John got up.

  John knelt by the door, the makeshift lockpick clutched in his fingers. He exhaled slowly, preparing to work the tumblers when—again—he heard the rhythmic clack of approaching footsteps. He cursed under his breath and shoved the hair clip back into his boot, stepping away just as the heavy wooden door creaked open.

  Several armed creatures stood in the doorway, their twisted forms blocking the dim torchlight from the corridor.

  "Time to go," one rasped, its voice like dried leaves crumbling in the wind.

  With little choice, John, Kaia, and Thorin were ushered out into the passage, flanked by their grotesque escorts. The air was thick with damp rot and something acrid that stung the back of John's throat.

  As they moved deeper through the dungeon, they passed other cells, each holding things that shouldn’t exist.

  In one, a bloated, slug-like man with too many eyes pressed his amorphous body against the bars, his mouth splitting open into a jagged grin filled with yellowed teeth.

  In another, a woman with porcelain skin sat eerily still, her face cracked like an old doll’s. As they passed, her eyes twitched toward them, unblinking.

  A three-headed dog, emaciated and snarling, paced behind its bars, each of its mouths whispering different threats in languages John didn't understand.

  Further down, a twisted heap of limbs writhed in the shadows, a chorus of voices whispering, sobbing, laughing. It had no discernible head, only groping hands and skeletal arms reaching outward.

  John kept his gaze forward, shuddering. What kind of nightmare factory is this place?

  The corridor finally sloped upward, and the air grew colder. At last, they emerged into the open night.

  The city before them was a corpse of stone and bone. Jagged, blackened buildings loomed, some half-collapsed, others grotesquely twisted as if they had melted and reformed into nightmarish shapes. The streets were paved with uneven cobblestones, some of which were gravestones, the names worn away by time.

  Dim green flames flickered in iron lanterns, casting eerie shadows against the crumbling walls. The air smelled of decay, damp earth, and something sickly sweet, like flowers left too long in stagnant water.

  The dead walked freely here. Skeletal figures in tattered finery meandered through the streets, some carrying rusted lanterns, others pulling decrepit carts filled with things John didn’t want to examine too closely. Shambling corpses, their bodies barely held together by necrotic magic, patrolled the roads like soldiers.

  A massive statue loomed over the center of the necropolis—a grotesque figure of a woman, her stone eyes hollow, her mouth frozen in a twisted grin. In one hand, she held a flayed skull; in the other, a scepter crowned with a still-beating heart encased in glass.

  "This place is wrong," Kaia murmured, hugging herself.

  John nodded. "Yeah. Like Silent Hill and a Victorian graveyard had a baby. And then left it to die."

  They were led down the wide avenue toward the heart of the city.

  The grotesque mansion loomed at the end of the street, a monstrous structure that seemed less built and more grown from the bones of the dead. Its spires jutted at unnatural angles, like broken fingers reaching for the sky. The walls pulsed faintly, as if the structure itself breathed.

  The doors were flanked by two massive skeleton gate guards, each standing motionless with enormous battle-axes resting against their shoulders. As the group approached, the skeletons turned in eerie unison and pushed open the great doors.

  The moment the doors parted, thick green smoke billowed forth, curling around their feet like grasping fingers. The interior glowed with a sickly, unholy light, illuminating the throne room beyond.

  The vast chamber was a cathedral of nightmares. Black stone walls were veined with pulsing green energy, casting eerie shadows across the room. Rows of sconces burned with ghostly flames, the light flickering against grotesque carvings of screaming faces embedded in the stone.

  The ceiling stretched impossibly high, draped with rotting banners of unknown insignias. A grand throne, carved from a single massive skull, sat upon a raised dais at the far end of the chamber. Its armrests were shaped from outstretched, skeletal hands, fingers curled as if grasping at unseen prey.

  Tiffany stepped forward, the green glow casting eerie shadows over her bubblegum pink perfection. Her platinum blonde hair, sleek and glossy, was pulled into a high ponytail, held together with a fuzzy pink scrunchie. The ends curled slightly, bouncing with each confident step she took on her glitter-covered, hot pink platform heels.

  Her makeup was flawless, like she had just stepped out of a 90s teen magazine—frosted pink lip gloss, baby blue eyeshadow, and perfectly arched brows. Her eyes shimmered an unnatural neon green, but the effect was less ‘dark sorceress’ and more ‘cheerleader possessed by eldritch horror.’

  She wore a white crop top with a pink plaid mini skirt, the kind that looked straight out of a high school movie where she was definitely the queen bee. Her knee-high socks were white with pink stripes at the top, paired with a cropped pink faux-fur jacket draped over her shoulders like she was about to head to the mall, not command an undead army.

  Her manicured nails—long, almond-shaped, and coated in glossy pink polish—tapped rhythmically against her bejeweled pink staff. A green glowing skull held in her other hand was the only clue that she was anything other than an undead valley girl nightmare.

  She tilted her head, blowing a bubble with her gum before letting it pop with a sharp snap. “Ugh, finally. You guys took forever to get here. Like, seriously, were you lost or just, like, bad at getting captured?”