Chapter Text

had always been a fan of Grace. He watched every lore video, memorized entity behaviors, and practiced countless runs. But none of that mattered now.

One moment, he was walking home from school, the chill of evening pressing on him. The next, a truck appeared from nowhere. His body went limp. Darkness swallowed him.

Then, he opened his eyes.

He was no longer in the real world. Instead, a vast expanse of white stretched in every direction, soft hum filling the air. He realized immediately: he was inside Grace. The game he loved so much had become reality.

A doorway hovered ahead. Drawn to it, he stepped through. Walls stretched infinitely, the space inviting him to move, to slide, to soar — the mechanics of Zen mode manifesting in real life. ### felt a rush of disbelief, but it was quickly replaced by awe.

He pushed off the wall, launching himself high. Then, he stopped. A sudden weight pressed against him. He felt the air bend. A voice, calm and infinite, resonated in his mind:

“i am no evil, i have given the straight path to you.”

###’s heart pounded. Before him, an enormous eye opened, staring into his soul. He knew immediately: this was God from the lore, the being he had admired in videos.

God spoke again:

“i will always love you. will you always love Me?”

“I… I do,” ### whispered, awe and fear warring inside him.

God’s gaze pierced him.

“you tread on a path I readied for you. a path to bring you to Me.”

felt his body dissolve, reform, as if the rules of reality were being rewritten around him.

“You can always try again. I gave you free will, although it’s probably in your best interest to do so, better to suffer while you’re still alive, and not for eternity after.”

Finally, God’s voice softened, almost tender:

“all is forgiven. all you need to do is say what I already know.”

exhaled. He was alive. Reborn. But no longer as the boy who had walked home from school. He was now part of Grace itself — the world he had loved, the world he had studied, and now, the world he had to survive in.

Chapter Text

###’s eyes kept darting around the lobby, lingering on the mural, the lamps, and the doors. One door in particular drew him like a magnet — the grace mode door. The one that started it all. Every Grace fan knew it, and now, standing in front of it, he could feel the weight of the countless runs, the lore, the lives of players who had passed through it before him.

His hands shook as he stepped closer. The other people in the lobby stayed across the room, whispering to each other, leaving him entirely alone. That was fine. Better this way, he told himself. Interaction would only make things worse.

The door itself seemed ordinary — polished wood, simple frame, faintly glowing numbers on a plaque he recognized from the game: “Grace Mode”. But in real life, it exuded a sense of gravity, a quiet intensity. ### could almost hear the echoes of entities and players, of successes and failures, resonating through it.

He took a shaky breath, trying to steady himself. The mural behind him flickered faintly, as if reminding him of what was at stake. Every fiber of his being screamed to turn back, hide somewhere safe in the shadows of the lobby. But curiosity, fascination, and the undeniable pull of the game he had loved for so long drove him forward.

His fingers grazed the handle. Cold. Real. Heavy. He swallowed hard, knuckles white. The lobby felt impossibly silent now, the hum of the lamps fading as if the world itself was holding its breath.

###’s mind raced: What if I fail? What if I die again? What if… Sin is waiting? The fear clawed at him, but he stepped closer. One step. Then another.

Finally, he exhaled, placing his hand fully on the handle. The door was real. He could feel the weight of it in his palm, the faint vibration of energy pulsing through it. The pull of grace mode was undeniable, and deep down, ### knew he had to cross the threshold — alone, anxious, unprepared — to see what awaited beyond.

He pushed.

The door opened, revealing the endless white hallways of grace mode, stretching into shadow and light. The hum of the world was louder now, entities unseen lurking, every step echoing in the surreal silence. ### stepped forward, heart racing, knees weak.

He was in Grace. Truly in it.

And no one was here to help him.

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pushed through the polished door frame and entered the next room of grace mode. His pulse hammered in his ears. The corridor stretched ahead — white walls fading into grey shadows, door after door waiting. He forced his legs to move. Just one step at a time.

He had opened maybe four rooms since leaving the lobby. Each felt identical — the low hum, the flicker of overhead lights, his own shallow breaths echoing. He tried to steady himself, but the knowledge of the rules he once understood in videos meant nothing in real life. Here there was fear, and sweat, and real consequences.

Suddenly the world shifted. The edges of his vision glowed hot pink. Static crackled in his ears. He froze.

“Pink… flames?”
His memory flooded back: this meant Carnation was coming.

Tentacle‑like streaks of pink flickered at the periphery of his view. His heart leapt. He knew the mechanic: run forward to find a hiding spot, or die — he’d studied it.

His legs snapped into motion. He opened the next door, slid into the room. He glanced frantically around: walls, floor, ceiling. Then he saw it — a small crevice in the floor edge, marked by a faint yellow writing on the wall next to it. A hiding spot. He dove in, pressed his back against the wall, barely breathing.

Behind him, a sound — a thunderous rush. Something huge. He could feel vibration in the air. A massive bloom of pink petals and an enormous single eye crossed his mind’s eye. Carnation.

He squeezed his eyes shut, aware of the petal‑smoke trailing past the opening of the hiding spot. The room shook faintly, then silence. The pink glow receded. He remained crouched, muscles trembling. Time stretched. He dared not move until he heard the click of a door on the other side, then the hum returned to normal.

Slowly, he peeked out. The hallway was empty. No creature looming. He exhaled relief. His hands were shaking, sweat slick on his skin. The hiding spot’s white light winked at him — safe for now.

He rose, legs weak. He opened the next door with shaking fingers, stepped forward. The corridors stretched on. For a moment he allowed himself one thought: I survived it.

But he knew: this was just the beginning. The rule of Carnation had been enforced, and he’d won this time. He didn’t know how many rooms lay ahead, or how many entities. He only knew that real‑life Grace was far crueler than the videos.

And as he walked on, the hush of the halls pressed around him. ###, anxious and alone, pressed forward.

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###’s heartbeat had barely slowed from the first encounter. He moved through the corridor of grace mode, walls stretching ahead, door-after-door, lights flickering faintly. His anxiety clung to him like a second skin.

A few rooms in (his mind struggling to count exactly how many), the sight of pink static appeared at the edge of his vision. The air seemed to warp. He recognised the signs instantly: the pink tentacle-like shapes creeping from his peripherals. Carnation was coming.

forced his legs to run. He slid through the doorway, his breath sharp in his ears. He ducked into a crawl-space, a small gap in the wall marked by faint yellow writing. This hiding spot flickered with soft white light. Based on what he had learned in videos, this was what you did. Hide. Wait. Survive.

Chest pounding, ### crouched low. Pink glow washed the room as Carnation passed somewhere out there, the air vibrating from its passage. He dared not move. Eventually, the pink faded. He exhaled slowly. He made it. Again.

He pushed onward, every instinct screaming caution. Then, finally, the corridor opened into something different: a hatch in the floor, a faintly creaking door, weirdly inviting. He descended.

What he found below was… sanctuary. A saferoom. No doors ahead for now, just pale light, calm walls. The timer suspended. The hum reduced to a gentle whisper. According to the lore, saferooms are checkpoints in the mode where entities cannot spawn.

sank to the floor, his back against the wall. For the first time in this surreal reality, he felt a fraction of relief. The lobby, the hallways, the chase — it all faded into muted background. Here, he could breathe. Here, he didn’t have to hide.

But even in this calm, his mind rattled with the implication: He had escaped Carnation this time. But the rules of this world were ruthless. The saferoom offered rest, not safety forever. He knew the timer would start again. The doors would open.

Chapter Text

rose from the saferoom, muscles stiff, chest still thrumming from the previous encounter. The calm of the saferoom had given him only a moment to breathe — now the corridor beyond stretched on, silent, flat, the soft hum a constant reminder that time and danger were pressing.

He opened each door cautiously, half expecting the next one to lead back to the lobby. But no. He was still deep in grace mode’s endless white-hallways now real and alive. His anxiety had a name now: survival.

A few rooms in, something changed. The air felt tighter. He slid down a wall, taking a moment, but the vibration in his spine told him it was too late to pause. On the periphery of his vision: faint static, pink flames licking the edge of his sight. The tell of Carnation.

His breath caught. He sprinted. He could sense the pink bloom of petals, the giant single eye of Carnation looming in his mind’s eye. He found a hiding spot — a narrow crawlspace lit faintly with yellow writing on the wall. He dove in. Crouched. His heart pounded so loud he was sure the stalk of the flower-eye could hear. The pink glow faded. He exhaled. He survived again.

He pushed on, legs still shaking, mind fraying at the edges of rational calm. He opened another door, slid in. And then he saw it: the blue light ahead, the dark slit-eye staring from the doorway. Slight. The entity he’d only studied, now real, ready.

Slight’s note: “don’t stare.”

locked his eyes away. His body screamed to look, to understand, but he knew: look and you lose. He glanced down, opened the door with his back turned, lunged forward. The eye flared. He felt it rush. He ducked, slid low beneath the light. The chilling text flashed in his mind: “YOU’RE WORTHLESS.” His screen—his vision—tore in half, white light radiating. If he had looked again, it would end.

But he didn’t. He didn’t look. He stayed low. He forced his legs ahead. The room ended. The door opened. Slight vanished as the next door clicked shut.

swayed against the wall. He felt bone-deep tired. But his run wasn’t over. Not yet. He had faced Carnation and survived. He had faced Slight and survived. Two major threats. But the hallway stretched on. The lamps above him flickered. The mural of doors and sacrifice pulsed in his memory.

He pressed forward, through the next door. His breathing shallow. The reality of this world weighed on him: he couldn’t rely on others. He was alone. Anxious. Introverted. But if he was going to survive this, he had to rely on one thing: the skills he had learned as a fan — the tells, the hiding spots, the movement — but now they mattered more than ever.

And somewhere ahead, the next entity waited. The next challenge.

###’s run continued.

Chapter Text

pushed through the next door, lantern in hand, his breaths still short from previous encounters. The hallway felt narrower now, lights flickering, the hum intensifying. He didn’t lift his lantern’s glow high — it felt like painting a target on himself. Better low, subtle.

Encounter with Carnation
After a couple more rooms, the familiar pink static appeared at the edges of his vision. Pink flame-petal shapes curling toward him. Carnation. He paused. His legs acted before his mind could scream. He sprinted down the corridor. The lantern’s glow bobbed beside him. Pink petals fluttered behind him like a trail of warning. His memories of fandom told him to find a hiding spot quickly.

He spotted one: a narrow gap between wall and floor, yellow writing faintly visible. He dove in, pressed himself flat. Behind him the glow intensified. The flower-eye creature raced by. He shut his eyes. When the pink finally receded and silence returned, he exhaled. But this time, he felt the weight of what Carnation symbolises: misinformation, temptation, the first betrayal.

He emerged into the corridor, knees trembling. He pressed the lantern tighter to his chest and moved on.

Slugfish Appears
Not far ahead, the air changed again. White tentacle-like shapes flashed at the edge of his screen-vision. The temperature dropped. Slugfish. He recalled: greed. A worm-like creature, a giant eye in its mouth, teeth exposed.

didn’t hide this time. No space. The creature would rush straight through the middle. He slid along the wall, keeping his lantern low, hoping the creature would pass. He felt it boom through the corridor, the floor vibrating. A red mist followed its trail. He held his breath until it faded. When silence returned, he exhaled. The meaning of Slugfish hit him: greed, rush, letting yourself be swallowed by the middle path of things.

Then Slight’s Judgment
He moved forward. His legs heavy, his mind hazy. The next door glowed subtly blue. His heart sank. Slight. He knew the rule: don’t stare. The eye. The deep blue. The hypnotic pattern. Underlying meaning: addiction, self-doubt.

opened the door almost sideways, looked down, not up. The blue glow grew. The slit-eye appeared. He forced his gaze away—his own reflection in the metal door showed fear. Whispered words echoed in his mind: “YOU’RE WORTHLESS.” He slid forward, avoiding the creature’s view. He felt something inside him quake: his quiet introversion, his isolation, his fears. The creature passed. He survived. But the effect lingered.

⸻

leaned against the wall outside the door. Lantern still burning faintly. Sweat slick on his forehead. His chest heaved. He had survived three major entities in one stretch. More than survival: he had faced symbols of temptation, greed, and self-loathing.

He stared at the murmuring walls. The run wasn’t just about rooms and doors anymore. It was about the inside of him: his sins, his fears, his hidden weight. He had to keep going. Because to stop was to admit defeat.

But for now… he paused. In the corridor. Alone. Lantern flickering. The next door loomed.

Chapter Text

pushed open the next heavy door, his lantern flickering in his grip. The corridor changed: the lights dimmed slightly, the hum deepened, and the floor seemed to vibrate with latent energy. He recognised the sign above the door: Breaker Room. In his fandom runs he’d seen them — rooms that paused the timer but introduced new hazards, tension ramped up.

He stepped inside. The walls were lined with panels, levers, and a plate in the centre. The timer display flashed above, counting down in bright red digits. “Breaker rooms — stop the timer, solve the puzzle, open the next door.” He had memorised it in videos, but now in real life, everything felt immediate, heavy.

His hands shook as he pulled the first lever. The display shifted. He pressed another, wires sparked. The floor plate pulsed under his foot. The timer paused. Relief washed over him. He exhaled, leaned against the wall for a moment. He was doing it. He was surviving.

With the breaker room cleared, a hatch opened at the far end. Beyond it, the corridor glowed faintly with saferoom light. ###’s heart soared — the saferoom. He moved fast. But the moment he stepped away from the breaker room, the air changed. The lights flickered, the hum stuttered. His body froze. He knew something was wrong.

Then, the world shifted into oversaturated red and yellow. The walls seemed to bleed colour. The sound of distorted breathing or snuffling close by. He turned slightly and caught sight of Goatman. The figure was massive, goat-skull horned, arms outstretched, elongated fingers reaching.

He dropped the lantern. It clanged. He saw its red eyes glow. He panicked. The timer, which had been paused by the breaker room, resumed — but now it was ticking dangerously. He sprinted. The corridor blurred. Every lean, slide, wall-jump tactic from his fandom studies activated automatically. But Goatman closed in unnervingly fast. According to what he remembered, Goatman appears when the saferoom hatch has been opened or the timer runs out.

flicked his flashlight — the one rule he’d read: flash Goatman to buy time. The beam hit the creature’s horns, the face, it recoiled slightly. Eagle-like, he dashed to the saferoom hatch. The red-yellow saturation followed him; his vision stung. His introverted panic flared, but adrenaline pushed him forward.

He launched himself through the hatch. The saferoom light enveloped him. The door slammed. He collapsed, gasping, the lantern and flashlight dropped beside him. The timer froze. The hum calmed. He survived.

Knees trembling, he sat on the cold concrete floor. His lantern lay beside him, its light flickering slowly. He wiped sweat from his brow. He couldn’t believe what just happened. He, an introverted, anxious fan-turned-player, had almost been claimed by Goatman and made it to the saferoom.

His mind swirled with meaning: Goatman’s domain wasn’t just physical chase — the lore says he represents spiritual apathy or lukewarm faith. Here he was, facing his own fear of not being ready, of hiding, of staying silent. Now he realised: surviving this run meant more than speed and mechanics. It meant confronting the parts of himself that had stayed in shadows.

He stayed there for a while, light low, breathing heavy. Introverted, anxious, yes — but alive. The saferoom offered rest, but not relief. He knew next door: more rooms, more entities, more mirror-reflections of what he carried inside.

He stood, picked up his lantern, his flashlight. With one slow breath he opened the hatch again and stepped back into the corridor. The run resumed.

Chapter Text

pushed the heavy hatch open and emerged from the saferoom. His legs wobbled; the cold concrete floor of reality felt sharp beneath his palms as he steadied himself. He wasn’t ready—but he’d no choice. The corridor loomed again. Lights flickered faintly, the hum resonated in the distance.

He clutched the lantern tighter, its glow a small defiance in the vast white hallway. His anxiety sat heavy in his chest. The feeling of being watched, of being out of place, pressed on him. I’m doing this alone, he told himself. I have to.

He walked slowly. Room after room clicked open with the soft hiss of hinges. His ears tuned to the subtle cues he’d learned: the whisper of static, the shift in lighting, the tremor in the air.

Then it happened. The corridor lights dimmed, and a yellow glow pulsed ahead. He paused. The glow grew. A soft smiling face appeared in front of him, bright yellow, closed eyes, the rings around it shimmering. He remembered: Dozer. Pride. Unrepentance.

froze. The creature’s eyes popped open – sharp vertical slants in a smiling face. The whisper of text in his mind: “Will you wake up tomorrow?”

He dropped into a crouch instantly. He didn’t move. The world shifted around him. Dozer’s face loomed. He held his breath. His earlier landmarks—his passion for the game, his confidence as a fan, his quiet assumption that he could handle this—felt suddenly like arrogance. Pride, exposed. The creature didn’t need to run. It only needed him to keep moving. So he didn’t. He remained still. The yellow face dissolved. He exhaled.

His legs shook as he stood. He moved on, silent, careful.

Then the corridor changed again. A red-slit eye appeared in the distance, glowing. He recognised it: Heed. The entity that represented the antithesis of Slight, the opposite of self-doubt, instead demanding facing.

The red light pulsed; its hypnotic pattern drew his gaze. He remembered the lore: look towards Heed. Fear snarled in his mind. For every entity he’d faced so far, survival meant hiding or avoiding. This one demanded confrontation. He fought his instinct to slide past. With the lantern low, he turned his head slightly, looked at the red eye. It glowed brighter.

His throat dry. The pattern hypnotised him. He felt his heart speed up. But instead of fleeing, he opened the door ahead. Without looking away, he pressed through. The corridor snapped back to normal. The red eye vanished.

sank against the wall. His chest hammered. He had done it. He had survived both Dozer and Heed. But he wasn’t triumphant. He was shaken. The lantern’s glow cast long shadows. He realised the run was more than rooms and dodges. Pride and facing truth. Avoidance versus confrontation.

Chapter Text

REDACTED pushed open the hatch of the saferoom, lantern in hand, He slid inside and the hatch slammed shut behind him. The hum lowered. The walls were pale and clean for once. Relief flickered in his chest.

He sank to the floor, back against the wall. His breaths came shallow and fast. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle.
Then his eyes opened. Something glinted in the corner. Half‑hidden, tucked behind a stack of crates, was a small box with a quiet glow. Instinctively, he reached for it.

He pulled it into the light of his lantern. On the package was written “Gleam”. He recalled the item from his fandom‑studies: Gleam is a light source/utility item in Grace that you can buy and use; when held, it acts like a laser pointer and can fire rounds that interact with door‑targets. 
He stared at it. In this real‑life version of Grace, finding one inside a saferoom meant something. It felt like a gift. Or a challenge. Or both.

Chapter Text

walked out of the saferoom hatch. His boots on the corridor felt colder than normal, the hum a bit lower. His lantern light flickered as though uncertain. The Gleam at his belt gave off a faint glow. He took a breath and moved forward.

Door after door clicked open. The corridor overhead lights dimmed gradually, as though the space itself was adapting. The soft white walls began to shift in tone — grey bleeding into the edges. He paused at one door. Something was wrong. The flicker of the lights, the stillness of the hum, the weight in his chest telling him to stop.

He opened the door. Inside, the room was darker than expected. Shadows deepened in the corners. The ambient light was a pale, cold hue. Then he saw it: a vertically stretched human-face in the flickering shadows. Eyes shining. One side of the face darker than the other. The rest obscured. That was PIHSROW.

###’s heart pounded. The lore said this entity appears only under a specific modifier (“MHEDWMEHIXYF”) or in very specific circumstances and represents worship of the devil.
The figure’s eyes locked on him momentarily. His lantern’s beam danced across the face; for one horrified second his items’ icons in his mind flickered, changed to red text. He felt the air shift. The world slowed.

A voice—a whisper in his mind—echoed:

“DOYOUREGRETITYET?”

dropped the lantern, alarmed. The lantern clanged, light scattering. He scrambled backward, staying low. The face advanced slowly, the darkness stretching. He felt a cold dread—instead of run or hide, everything pointed to judgment, to something final.

He remembered the document lore: when PIHSROW attacks, the player is shoved into the void and cannot respawn normally.
Fear surged. ### realized: this wasn’t like the others. This wasn’t just survival—this was reckoning.

He grabbed the lantern, held the Gleam tightly. He darted to the door. Heart in his throat. The sound of static and soft flicker in his ears. He slammed through the door, hallway ahead blindingly white for a moment. The hum returned.

skidded to a halt, chest heaving. He looked at his reflection in the wall panel—his face pale, eyes wide. He raised the lantern. It cast a single shaky light. He looked at the Gleam: it glowed. But something inside him had changed. He touched his chest.

He took a shaky breath. The corridor stretched onward. He had survived the encounter. But the message lingered: Worship, regret, no escape. Alone, anxious—and now, more aware of the darkness inside him.

He stepped forward. The run continued.

Chapter Text

He clicked open the next door.

The corridor ahead was quieter than usual. Unnaturally quiet.
The hum had dropped a full note lower — almost like the entire facility had inhaled and was waiting for something.
The lights flickered faintly, the shadows stretching into strange shapes.

He sensed something wrong before he saw it.

And then, in the far corner of the hallway, stood Mime.

The entity shimmered into view in pieces — first the chalk-white smile, then the floating hands with four stubby fingers each, then the rest of its crude drawn shape, vibrating softly like a bad recording.
Its fingers twiddled, coaxing shadows from the walls.

####’s heart jolted. The air thickened around him like syrup.

Mime’s voice slipped directly into his head, a soft, playful lilt that felt wrong in every direction:

“I’m right here~!”
“We can be great friends, you and I.”
“I know you want it.”
“It’s just that easy…”

His breath hitched. The words tangled in the parts of him he never spoke about — quiet nights alone, doubts, hidden urges, the things he kept locked behind his shell.

Mime didn’t chase. Mime didn’t scream.
Mime invited.

The entity drifted closer, hands wiggling as if performing a puppet show starring ####’s own guilt.

“Don’t be shy.
A grab and pull can act like fuel…”

####’s mind screamed No, but his body felt heavy, weakened by implication alone. His fingers shook around the lantern’s handle. He forced his eyes down — away from the smile, away from the curled beckoning fingers.

He slid sideways along the wall, slow, quiet, like prey trying not to disturb a predator. He didn’t run. Running meant panic. Panic meant mistakes.
Mime followed just behind, pacing him, breathing the same air, whispering temptations that felt half like taunts and half like truths.

The corridor blurred. His chest tightened.

He passed a door. The Gleam’s symbol flickered over the frame’s tiny diamond-shaped target.

.

Now.

He unclipped the Gleam with trembling hands.
Pointed it.
Clicked.

The door hissed open like salvation.

rushed through — almost collapsing through the threshold. The moment his boot crossed the line, Mime vanished. The whispering stopped mid-word.
The hum returned to normal.
The lights steadied.

He sagged against the wall, lantern shaking in his grip. His legs felt hollow. He swallowed hard.

Mime wasn’t like Carnation or Slugfish or Slight.
Mime wasn’t there to punish or chase.

Mime tempted.

He remembered the lore text that fans joked about but never fully understood:

“Mime represents Lust, specifically self-pleasure.”

His face warmed. His breath shuddered.
He had not given in. He had not looked. He had not listened.

Still anxious.
Still not dead.
But with a new kind of strength — the kind that comes from refusing your own shadow.

He clipped the Gleam back onto his belt.
He steadied his lantern.

And then he exhaled.

The corridor stretched ahead — pale white, humming, endless.

The run continued.

Chapter Text

stepped out of the saferoom with the lantern still clasped in one hand, the Gleam strapped at his side. The smoother hum of the saferoom faded behind him as the white corridor stretched ahead once more. He paused, head bowed slightly, shoulders heavy.
He opened door after door, each click a reminder of his isolation, his fear, his silent vow to keep moving.

Then, without warning, the corridor’s ambient lighting flickered. A low, persistent whistling began in his ears — faint at first, then rising in pitch. Before he could flinch, there it was: a small rat-like creature, four-legged, its nose gleaming, its body twitching unnaturally. Doombringer had appeared.

####’s heart lurched. He hadn’t seen it coming. The creature’s item slot in his mind — the Gleam belt, the lantern — all rights shifted.
He recalled the text: Doombringer appears when the modifier “Cheesed to meet you!” is activated. It symbolises negligence to sins. #### felt the weight in the pit of his stomach.

The rat’s beady eyes locked on him. Its mouth opened impossibly wide. The whistling turned into a high-pitched squeal.

Then the mechanics: #### reached for the action buried deep in his survival instincts. He hovered his finger near the “click” to slam the mouth shut. If he failed, the creature would explode. Instant death.

He steadied his hand. The lantern shook faintly.

He clicked.

The rat’s mouth snapped shut. The creature roared once, flinched, and then exploded in a burst of darkness. #### gulped air as the corridor faded back to normal.

He sank to his knees, lantern light flickering. The rat’s symbolic weight pressed harder than the flash of its explosion. He realised: he’d avoided negligence today. He’d acted.

But this run… this redemption… it was far from over.

He stood, lantern in hand. He knew his anxiety, his fear of approaching others — they were part of the sins this world showed him. The Gleam at his side glowed faintly. The path ahead beckoned.

walked on.

Chapter Text

set his lantern down just outside the saferoom’s hatch. He paused a moment, rubbing his temples. The glow from the lantern cast thin shadows on the white corridor walls. He was still anxious. Still quiet. Still watching from the corners. But something felt different now — as though the world itself was waiting for him.
He opened the hatch and climbed out. The hum resumed, doors stretched ahead. He exhaled. He moved forward.

After a few doors, the air shifted again. A wax‑white orb, black scribbles floating around it, materialised ahead in an otherwise empty hall. Litany.

####’s breath stopped. Litany’s note: “don’t keep your head high when it looks.”
The orb drifted and hovered, three eyes wide open, then closing one by one, each eye opening preceded an “attack” sequence.

knew what to do — crouch or slide. He dropped into a slide motion as one of the eyes peeled open. His body forced itself into the motion, even though his heart hammered. The eye’s gaze flickered across him. The corridor paused. Then Litany vanished.
He leaned against the wall, breath heavy. Peer pressure. Fear of judgement. Litany represented those things. Now he felt them. Here, alone, running through this world, every move exposed.

He forced himself onward.

Not far ahead, another shift. The light dimmed. A figure appeared, almost identical to him — same posture, same lantern in hand, same boots, same jacket. But half of the figure’s body was monochrome, limbs warped slightly, head tilted oddly. Doppel.

####’s skin crawled. He remembered the note: “Copies your every move, slow down when cornered.”
Doppel mirrored his steps, sliding when he slid, pausing when he paused. The corridor seemed to fold around them. Doubled reflections in his mind. The voice in his head said: Your flaws and mistakes.

####’s lantern light flickered. He knew he couldn’t stand still — that would be exactly what Doppel wanted. He picked up speed, hurdling through the next door, barely glancing back. Doppel’s silhouette lingered behind the frame for a moment, then vanished.

His heart thundered. He stopped in the next room, knees weak.

He realised: Litany had judged him. Doppel had mirrored him. He was facing the parts of himself he tried to avoid — fear of judgement, of being watched; mistakes replaying; the relentless echo of his own movements.

Alone, introverted, anxious — yes. But moving forward nonetheless. He picked up his lantern, wiped sweat from his brow, and advanced to the next door.

The run continued.

Chapter Text

He advanced through room after room, each door echoing the click of metal, each hallway stretching with white walls and faint light. His feet felt heavy. His thoughts heavier. He didn’t want to think of what awaited — yet he knew the run of Grace wasn’t over. Something loomed.

Then: the sky overhead in the corridor shifted. The ambient light turned blood-reddish. A thick fog crept across the ceiling. Rain began to tap on his helmet—a soft but relentless patter. He froze. Every instinct told him this wasn’t normal.

This is Sorrow.

The rain intensified. The walls quivered. Red mist swirled. His pulse surged. He remembered the lore: Sorrow appears as bloody red mist and rain, attacks and kills players who aren’t under cover.

####’s breath caught. He searched for shelter. He saw a doorframe ahead. He darted toward it, heart hammering, shoved himself under the lintel. His back pressed to the cool metal. The rain pelted the corridor, heavier. The mist thickened. Screen shake knocked his vision.

Hide. Don’t move.

He crouched, lantern low, dripping water from his boots. The hallway became a wash of red. Thunder rolled in his ears. The rain hammered him like confession. His mind flooded with his insecurities, his fears, his unspoken thoughts of “not enough.”

He tightly closed his eyes. The rainfall screamed in his mind: his silent shame, his self-loathing.

Finally, the rain stopped. The mist lifted. The blood-red sky reverted. A short chime sounded. He exhaled. He remained under the doorframe for a long moment. The corridor sat silent afterward.

When he emerged, he felt changed. The lantern’s glow illuminated his face — pale, anxious, worn. He had survived Sorrow. But surviving felt hollow. The theme of Sorrow wasn’t just chase—it was the weight of his own self-hate, his fear of being unworthy.

He moved on, shivering slightly, lantern alight. He didn’t speak. He didn’t look to the others. They were behind him somewhere, lost in their own runs. He was alone. Introverted. Anxious. Yet continuing.

He opened the next door. The run resumed.
He pressed forward.

Chapter Text

###} left the saferoom hatch behind him. His boots clicked on the corridor floor, the lantern’s glow wavering in his hand. The Gleam at his belt felt heavier now—more loaded with meaning than utility. He exhaled slowly.

He passed door after door, each unlabeled, each echoing faintly with his own heartbeat. His anxiety followed him like a shadow he couldn’t shake. He hadn’t spoken. He didn’t plan to. He focused on the run.

Then the corridor’s white light flickered. The hum shifted to a low, mechanical ticking. A faint digital echo behind his ears. He froze mid‑step.

Ahead, on the wall, a giant blue smiling face materialised: Kookoo. Circular, pixelated roots trailing top and bottom, white X’s for eyes. Its grin stretched. The ticking grew louder. 
On the screen of his vision, a clock‑face appeared. The word “REMEMBER” hovered around its rim. A number between 3 and 12 appeared. The second hand started moving.

#### heart raced. He tightened his grip on the lantern. He felt the Gleam’s laser bob weightlessly at his side.
The rules: hold no item when the clock reaches the number. If you’re still holding something when that moment hits, death. 
#### pulse thundered. He–he had to let go.

His fingers fumbled. He unclipped the Gleam. He set the lantern down, wincing at the metal’s cold clang.
“My items… my anchors…” he whispered silently.

The second hand ticked faster. His number drew near.
He shut his eyes for a breath. He pictured every item he refused to let go of in his life—every prideful badge, every quiet fear, every hidden temptation. Kookoo didn’t chase. It waited. It judged. It demanded surrender.

When the hand hit the number—
He held nothing.
The clock dinged. Kookoo’s grin flickered. Then vanished. The corridor’s lighting snapped back to normal. The hum resumed.

CLASSIFIED crouched for a moment by the wall. His lantern and Gleam lay on the ground. His chest heaved.
He retrieved them slowly. His voice barely audible: “I did it.”
But he also knew: he didn’t escape. He just complied with a rule. He confronted escapism. He faced the sin of holding on too tightly. Kookoo represented that. 

He stood. Picked up his lantern, clipped the Gleam. He turned and walked on. Not alone but with god

Chapter Text

crept out of the saferoom, lantern in hand, the Gleam clipped at his belt. His whole body was tense — every step weighed by the memory of what he’d already faced. The corridor felt ominously quiet, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
He passed a series of doors, breathing shallow, listening for anything. Then — a flicker of static in his vision, a sudden pause in the ambient hum. The lights dimmed just a fraction. Something felt off.

He turned a corner — and there, in the dim light, stood Elkman.
Elkman’s form was exactly as the lore described: tall, humanoid but grotesque, with long, unnatural limbs. His face glowed white from his mouth, casting an eerie light.
When he saw ####, the static in ####’s vision thickened, and the music in his head — a slow, warped hum — started to drag downward into distortion.

Panic clawed its way into ####’s chest. His grip on the lantern tightened. According to guides, once Elkman detects a player you have about three seconds to break line of sight.
He backed up slowly, eyes flicking toward the nearest corner, heartbeat hammering. Elkman’s head bobbed slightly; tendrils of light pulsed from his gaping luminous mouth. Heat flooded ####’s vision, the static sharpening like needles.

Then #### moved — fast.
He darted around the corner, dropping low, pressing himself against the cold wall. The hum in his ears warped violently. His breath caught in his throat.

He counted —
one… two… three…

Then he peeked.
Elkman was gone.
The static thinned, the oppressive buzzing faded.

exhaled shakily, his legs trembling beneath him. He felt like he’d just walked past the edge of a blade.
He stood, lantern trembling faintly in his hand. He touched the Gleam at his belt — somehow its light felt steadier, more grounding.

In his mind lingered the meaning of Elkman:
Lust.
Not desire fulfilled — but desire that haunts, that tempts, that lingers where it shouldn’t.

felt a weight in his chest. This run wasn’t just dodging monsters — it was facing every thought he tried to bury: fear, pride, longing, temptation.
He swallowed, lifted the lantern again, and forced himself forward.
Heart racing —
hands shaking —
but alive.

Chapter Text

####’s footsteps echoed softly as he left the saferoom. His lantern trembled in his hand — more from memory than fear. The Gleam at his belt glowed faintly, quiet, like a pulse.

He walked through door after door, the walls plain, the hum steady but distant in his ears. His throat felt dry. In his mind, thoughts flickered: regret… shame… a longing for something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Then he sensed something. The air shifted, like static humming at the edge of vision. Behind him: a slow, glitched movement. He turned — his heart leapt. There, stepping out of the shadows, was Rue.

Rue appeared as a tall, white, disfigured form that seemed to glitch — limbs sagging, chains hanging from arms and legs. Its eyes were long and empty.

froze, lantern light catching the figure. The hum dropped, replaced by a trembling silence.
In his mind, he felt the weight of Rue’s meaning: someone who hurt you in the past, a sin of guilt. Rue’s presence demanded acknowledgment: “will you forgive me?”, “why did you have to salt the wound?” The chains, the lingering gaze — all pressed on him.

####’s breath came in shallow bursts. He remembered post‑clarity — that sudden, sharp moment after giving in to desire, when the world feels different, when regret floods in. In that moment, Rue felt like that clarity. Not physical, but spiritual. A confrontation with the guilt, the hurt, the actions he wished he could change.

Rue glitched forward. Its arms creaked. The indicator in his mind shimmered red, showing how close it was.
He tried to move backward, but his legs were lead. Rue kept coming.

slowly raised his flashlight — if he flashed Rue, he could make it disappear. That’s how you survive. His hand trembled. He squeezed his grip.
“Please…” he whispered, not sure to whom. His own voice seemed foreign.

Rue’s figure hovered. In his mind, he heard regret, apology, pain. The chains rattled softly.

He flicked the flashlight. The beam hit Rue. For a moment, the world froze. Rue’s form flickered, glitched. Then — Rue vanished.

staggered, breathing heavy, back against the wall. The lantern’s light felt weak in his trembling hands. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling raw.
He realised: this encounter was more than a threat. It was a reckoning. Rue wasn’t just an entity to avoid — it was part of his soul’s weight. The guilt he carried. The “what ifs.” The wounds that didn’t heal.

Chapter Text

####’s boots whispered on the corridor floor as he left the saferoom. The hum around him was lower than before, but his chest felt heavy, as though every entity he’d faced compressed into his lungs. He tightened his grip on his lantern and steadied the Gleam at his side.

A faint ringing began echoing through the walls — delicate but sure, like distant chimes. He froze. The note in his mind flashed: “flash it while you still can.”

Ahead, standing in silhouette, was Drain. A black, headless humanoid figure with long, crooked limbs and fingers that twisted unnaturally. Its arms reached toward him.
####’s heart pounded. He remembered the lore: Drain only appears when the RESIST modifier is active. It embodied lustful actions, the sin of passion that goes too far.

Drain knelt at first, barely moving. The ringing in the corridor grew louder; its presence heavier. Then, when #### stepped closer, it rose abruptly, straightening into its full, terrible height. Its long fingers stretched, twitching, reaching.

Without thinking, #### raised his flashlight. His hand shook.

According to the lore, you must flash Drain with a flashlight to make it retreat or “be vanquished.”
Also, as Drain chases, its speed increases exponentially.

The moment its dark form lurched forward, #### clicked on the flashlight. A beam of light cut through the darkness. Drain recoiled — the ringing chime cracked into the flashlight’s burst. It flinched, its limbs twitching, then lunged again.

forced himself to stay calm. He kept the light steady. The creature faltered again. He pressed forward, each step trembling. The beam stayed fixed on Drain.
Then Drain suddenly stopped its charge. It seemed to hang in place, hands outstretched, twitching. The ringing slowed, then stuttered.

dared to breathe. His voice was quiet, shaky: “I won’t give in.”
The creature flickered. For a moment, its form changed — the black figure turned pale white (this can happen if the bound trait is used).
####’s flashlight pulse remained constant. His will felt like iron, anchored in shame and desperation both.

Finally, Drain backed up, headless form fading into the shadows. The ringing died away. The corridor lights stabilized. The hum returned.

dropped to his knees, lantern shaking. He stared at the path ahead. He realized: this encounter wasn’t just about surviving an entity. It was about resisting something inside him he feared losing control over.
He rose slowly, steadied himself. The Gleam flickered softly at his belt, as if acknowledging his victory — not just over Drain, but over his own impulses.

Chapter Text

left the saferoom hatch feeling heavier than ever. His chest tightened. He clutched his lantern tighter, Gleam hanging at his belt. The corridor ahead seemed quieter, but the air felt charged — like a tension he couldn’t name.
As he walked, the lights flickered briefly. The hum deepened, then softened. A shadow shifted along the wall. His heart pounded. Something was coming. Not fast — but inexorably.

Suddenly, a giant black eye materialised in front of him. The outline had a static-like effect, and inside the iris was a small white smiley face. This was Ire.
He froze.

In his mind, he remembered the lore: Ire represents wrath.
Also, how to survive: you must jump while the eye is on the screen.
If you don’t, the eye fully opens, the smiley face appears, and then you die.

####’s breath came in short bursts. The eye slowly peeled open, widening. The corridor light dimmed in sync with its motion. His stomach twisted. Regret, anger, every buried frustration he carried — it felt like Ire was drawing them out of him, forcing him to face them.

He swallowed, prepared himself, and then jumped. His boots left the ground, just as Ire’s eye fully opened. For a terrifying moment, time seemed to stretch. Then, the jump paid off: the eye recoiled. The face showed a disappointed expression.

The eye shrank, static dissolving, then blinked out. The corridor light returned. The hum resumed. #### landed, knees shaking. He leaned against the wall, helmet heavy, lamp quiet in his hand.

He whispered to himself: “Not… not yet.”
He realized this wasn’t just a fight for survival — it was a confrontation with his own wrath. Every anger, every grudge, every time he held onto resentment … Ire embodied all of it.

Chapter Text

####’s breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as he approached the middle-right door on the second floor — the portal to Reprieve. The air felt thick, carrying the weight of everything he’d done and everything he’d feared. He held his lantern tight, Gleam at his side, and opened the door.

Immediately, the world changed. Gone was the linear maze of white halls. Instead, he stood in a vast, open plane — black and white terrain stretching to the horizon, punctuated by steep walls, slopes, and scattered dark beacons. A single beacon glowed in front of him, and behind it rose a giant black circle in the sky, like a silent celestial eye.

deep within the fumes of sin
evaluation
regret
thirst
war

and return

He walked forward and touched the first beacon. A gentle chime echoed, and his run began. This is different, he thought — no longer running from Sin, but toward something: atonement, confession, perhaps even peace.

In Reprieve, he realised, he couldn’t just flee. The mode demanded skill: sliding, bouncing off walls, racing across the terrain — but also, something deeper: confrontation. The wiki said he could parry entities here — press the “item use special” keybind and block attacks, even cancel some.
He tried it instinctively when a shadow drifted close — parried, and felt the strange rush of success. His movements felt sharper, more deliberate.

He also felt the pressure of time: he needed to collect all the beacons on this floor before the timer ran out. But if he failed… something called Shame would appear, and he’d have to parry to survive.

As he collected more beacons, memories of his past run flooded back: Sin, Dozer, Ire, Elkman, Rue — each entity, each test, each scar. Reprieve felt like a confessional booth, lore-wise.
He wasn’t just running anymore. He was repenting. Each beacon touched felt like laying down a piece of his guilt.

When he’d cleared enough beacons on the floor, a new choice appeared: Cash out or Continue. If he stopped now, he could walk away satisfied, but would his confession truly end?
He hesitated. The weight of his sins pressed on him. But he also felt something like hope.

At the end of the floor, he chose “That’s the end.” A voice whispered in his mind, gentle and full of emotion. He felt… forgiven. Or at least granted a reprieve. The lore says if you end the run, you see a “GRACE REBUILT” moment.
In that moment, he understood: this was never just about escaping entities. It was about facing himself. The entities weren’t arbitrary monsters — they were parts of him: his vanity, his wrath, his regret, his lust, his pride.

He stood at the edge of the Reprieve floor, lantern glowing, the black-white terrain stretching out forever. He whispered quietly to himself:
“I will carry this. But I will not let it define me.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and stepped forward. The run continued — not just for survival, but for redemption.

The final beacon hummed behind him, its soft glow fading into the monochrome horizon. #### stood alone in the still, impossible landscape of Reprieve — the sloped stone, the silent wind, the distant black sun suspended in a sky that never changed. His lantern flickered once, as if waiting for him to choose.

The final prompt lingered in front of him:

CASH OUT
CONTINUE
THAT’S THE END

The words held weight.
Not because they were commands — but because each one represented a life he could choose.

exhaled, watching his breath dissolve into the grayscale air.
He thought of everything that brought him here:
Sin staring into the parts of him he tried to hide.
Ire tearing through his fear.
Rue forcing him to confront what desire left behind.
Drain’s cold, consuming presence.
Sorrow’s heaviness.
Mime’s temptations.
Doombringer’s finality.
Elkman’s quiet, awful insistence.
Dozer’s judgment.
Heed’s warning.

And above all of it… that strange, unreachable grace that kept pulling him forward.

His hand hovered over the choices — but he didn’t touch any of them.

The menu flickered.
The wind shifted.
His lantern’s flame dimmed to a whisper.

Maybe this was the test.
Maybe this was the release.
Maybe this was neither.

He turned around.

Behind him, the monochrome world stretched back into endless hills and angled stone platforms — a path that looked different now, as if it were changing depending on where he chose to stand.

Ahead of him, the void sun pulsed once, like a distant heartbeat.

No answer came.
No voice of God spoke.
No entity emerged.
Nothing forced his hand.

For the first time since he arrived in this realm, #### wasn’t running.
And he wasn’t being chased.

He tightened his grip on the lantern. It warmed slightly, like a living thing.

He stepped forward.

One step toward the beacons.
Or maybe away from them.
Or maybe toward something neither of those choices could explain.

The world didn’t tell him if he was winning or losing.
Surviving or failing.
Ascending or falling.

It simply shifted with him — reshaping the floor beneath his feet as though the realm itself was waiting to see what he would become.

As he walked, the light behind him faded.
But the path ahead did not brighten.
It simply existed.

Waiting.
Watching.
Receiving him.

The horizon pulsed again — a soft, heart-like thrum — and then everything returned to silence.

"a true happiness is one without regret. follow Me, and you'll regret nothing."

didn’t look back.