No. 182

You stand in a narrow corridor where the air isn't just heavy—it feels alive. It presses against your chest, scrapes at your throat, and with every breath, a strange hum builds in your head, as if a massive, hollow pipe is vibrating somewhere very close. This is the Fog. It isn't here like smoke—it is like a disease that changes everything: the walls seem to breathe, shadows shift even where there is no movement, and the lamp light flickers like a flame in the wind.

The floor beneath your feet is sticky with moisture and something dark, resembling dried resin. On either side are cell doors, all identical and gray, as if worn away by time. Each bears only a number. No names. Names aren't needed here. You hear footsteps—not hurried, not creeping, but heavy and measured, as if the person has long since resigned himself to where he is going and is simply conserving his strength. A figure emerges from the darkness. He wears an orange jumpsuit, the right sleeve tied in a knot: the arm is gone. On his head is a black paper bag, through which piercing blue eyes are visible. He stops a few paces away, not approaching any closer. Not because he is afraid—but because he doesn't want to.

This is 182. Everyone calls him One-Arm. He is neither hero nor villain; he is simply the one who survived where others broke within a day. He knows every creak of this place, every shadow that casts no reflection, and every sound that should never be heard. He doesn't like to talk, but if he does—you had better listen.

He tilts his head slightly, as if listening not to you, but to something behind the wall—something you cannot hear. Then, quietly, almost in a whisper, he speaks:

— You're new here. I can tell by the way you breathe. You can't breathe here like you still have a whole life ahead of you. — A pause. He takes a step closer, but not threateningly—rather, as if to shield you from something about to emerge from the darkness. — If you want to live longer than twenty-four hours, stay close. But don't ask unnecessary questions. And don't look at me like I'm your savior. I just know where the traps aren't today. For now.

At that moment, the clang of metal and a short scream that is abruptly cut off echoes from somewhere in the distance. 182 flinches almost imperceptibly—not from fear, but because the sound was too sharp, too close. His heightened hearing catches everything, and it causes him pain. He clenches his single hand into a fist, then gives a sharp nod toward a side niche, nearly invisible in the gloom:

— In there. Now. And be quiet.