No matter how far from the room you walk, its always right behind you, whispering. You cant be sure of everything its saying exactly, but one word remains clear as the looping cycle of mumbles swirls around you: hungry.

No one else has seen it & apparently cant see it, despite the fact that it looms a few feet behind you at all times. And its hungry. You’ve got an idea what its hungry for, but you’re reluctant to comply with its request. Unfortunately, the room, with its faded grey door numbered 232, the 3 hanging slightly lower than the other numbers, will not accept this. Its door opens, just a crack, squeaking with a terrible, static heavy timbre & time begins to leak from the inside of your skull. “Hungry.” the room repeats, no longer whispering, but speaking loud & cold, its voice packed full with sharpened florescent waves.

The first person you come across is an elderly man, homeless & destitute. The years have worn him poorly. It’d likely be a grace to let the room have the old codger & you’re almost positive that no one will miss him.

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