"Wakefulness is a currency," he whispered, recalling the warning scrawled on the wall of Level 200. He pinched the skin of his forearm, the sharp pain a bright star in the fog of his mind.
A vast, domed space, its ceiling a living aurora—greens and violets bleeding into gold, shifting like silk in a slow wind. The floor was soft moss, cool under his fingers when he knelt. Pillows of every size lay scattered, some plush velvet, some rough linen, all the colors of bruises and blossoms. A low table held a teapot that poured by itself into a cup that was never empty. The tea tasted like honey and the memory of a song he’d forgotten he loved.
"Let me out," he grunted, slamming his palm against the lower octaves.
: The game uses a subtle snapping mechanic. If an item doesn't click into place, try a different surface or drawer. Cultural Confusion: The Backrooms Connection
English
