The city’s relentless winter presses in from above, but below, silence reigns. Fluorescent lights flicker, casting eerie, jagged shadows along the peeling tiles and graffiti-scrawled walls. Each step down the spiral staircase seems to echo for miles, the air growing heavier, tinged with the scent of damp earth and old steel.

A single beam of light reveals piles of discarded newspapers and shattered glass. The platform’s edge crumbles dangerously, hinting at the age and neglect of this forgotten place. On the far wall, a sign points further down, its letters warped: “To Lower Levels.”

The darkness becomes palpable, broken only by the ghostly blue of the fungi, which illuminate strange, looping letters carved into the walls. The air is thick, almost unbreathable, and the floor vibrates with a distant, subterranean rumble. The sense of being watched grows stronger with every step.

Inside, the laboratory is a chaos of overturned desks, shattered monitors, and strange symbols scrawled in looping, crooked letters across every surface. The air hums with static, and in the far corner, something moves, just beyond the reach of the flickering light. The anomalies have left their mark here, warping reality itself.

The ruined lab pulses with a strange energy as the anomalies twist and reform, their shapes barely human. The crooked letters flicker between languages, at times spelling out warnings, at others, invitations or threats. The observer’s mind strains to make sense of the shifting words, feeling reality bend and blur around the edges.

Panic sets in as the letters lash out, etching themselves onto the walls and into memory. The path back is perilous, each step chased by the whisper of words that linger in the mind long after leaving. Above, the world seems unchanged, but the crooked letters have left their imprint, promising that the depths will never truly release those who have seen them.