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The air hangs thick with the static of abandoned machinery as you step into the hushed expanse of the Black Zone—a derelict complex erased from maps, its existence buried under layers of classified files and blood oaths. Walls scarred by corrosion curve inward like the ribs of some long-dead beast, corridors echoing with the phantom echoes of screams stifled behind sealed doors. Here, under flickering emergency lights, the remnants of Project Lazarus linger: half-melted lab coats draped over rusted gurneys, shattered vials leaking iridescent sludge, and fragmented logs scrawled in frantic handwriting that devolves into symbols no linguist could decipher. Scour abandoned observation decks for cipher-locked terminals glitching with corrupted footage of…*something* moving too fast to track. Pocket a cracked keycard wedged beneath a skeletal hand in Sector 7—it still hums, as if charged by whatever energy source the scientists harnessed (and failed to contain). Follow the trail of claw marks gouged into reinforced steel to a sealed chamber where a single word, *ASCENSION*, is etched repeatedly into the floor, the letters deepening near a ventilation shaft clogged with brittle strands of hair not quite human. But tread carefully. The security drones still patrol, their fractured AI mistaking shadows for intruders, and the air tastes metallic—a warning. Whatever truths lie buried here were never meant to be unearthed. Survive the revelations, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.
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