Click to play. Lightning splits the sky as rain hammers the crumbling hospital. Your flashlight gutters, casting jagged shadows across peeling walls stained with something darker than mold. A door creaks open ahead—not from the wind. The radio on your belt crackles, a voice buried in static: "...don't trust the shadows..." Glass shatters behind you. Your pulse thunders louder than the storm as you turn, light trembling over empty gurneys and shattered vials. Something cold brushes your neck. A whisper slithers into your ear, "Found you." The flashlight dies.
In Tetris, players face a screen where vibrant geometric shapes—tetrominoes, each made of four linked blocks—descend steadily. By rotating or sliding these pieces mid-fall, the aim is to slot them into place, crafting solid horizontal lines. A completed row instantly vanishes, scoring points and freeing space below. Momentum builds as the pace quickens, demanding rapid decisions and tactical foresight to position each shape effectively. Every cleared line buys breathing room, but the relentless acceleration pushes reflexes and strategy to their limits. Success hinges on anticipating patterns, balancing immediate placements with future gaps, and maximizing combos by clearing multiple rows at once. The game halts only when the screen overflows with stacked blocks—a race against time where precision and adaptability determine how long you last.
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