They don’t remember how they got here. There isn’t really a “they”—just scattered voices, a splintered awareness drifting through endless, twisted neon walls that pulse and flicker like a heartbeat. The maze stretches out in every direction, woven from raw thoughts, hidden fears, and secrets buried so deep that even the mind itself recoils. The air is thick, pressing in on them, as colors throb like exposed nerves, pulsing bright and dim, flickering just enough to keep them on edge. Every sound they make comes back hollow and warped, as though the mind itself mocks every step forward.

_Ghosts? Hallucinations?_

Those labels don’t matter here. Only one thing feels certain: somewhere in this mess, there must be a way out.

A hand—_does it even belong to them?_—presses against a wall that feels disturbingly warm, pulsing with faint, sickly heat. It shifts under their touch, crumbling away like sand even as it resists them.

“This isn’t real,” a voice murmurs, distrust simmering in every word.

“But that doesn’t make it safe,” another voice replies, sharp and bitter, cutting through the silence.

“Feels like some kind of trip. Trauma, self-loathing. Think there’s an exit?”

“…Or are we just meant to walk these halls forever?”

Nothing answers. The silence is thick, swallowing up their words. They have no choice but to press on, minutes blurring into hours, hours into **days**—time has lost all meaning. Only this suffocating rhythm remains, broken by the occasional light pulse and the hollow echo of their voices.

The walls start flashing with scenes of overwhelming heartbreak, unrelenting shame, the sharp twang of small betrayals, and regrets. Each memory is jagged, unyielding, like shards of a mirror reflecting someone else’s life. And yet the memories claw at something deep inside, as if fragments of their existence are embedded into the broken glass.

The boundary between self and other has now shattered, leaving them tangled in memories they know aren’t theirs but feel within their bones—do they even have bones?

The memories hover, taunting them with glimpses they can almost—but never quite—grasp. Each time they reach out, the scenes slip away like shadows in the light, just beyond their touch. Still, they keep moving, forced to absorb layer upon layer of shame, regret, and guilty fear. In one flash, they see a hand reaching out, fingers trembling with longing; in another, they feel the raw ache of abandonment, the hollow sting of a love lost. These emotions cling to them and press into their thoughts until they feel like drowning in someone else’s sorrow.

Now and then, something draws them toward the walls—a desperate urge for something solid, something real. But just like the memories, the walls shudder and recoil each time, shifting away as if alive, rejecting their very touch. The wrongness of it ripples through them, a reminder that nothing here belongs to them. They are the **intruders**, yet somehow, this place feels like it’s been waiting for them all along.

Then, out of nowhere, a door appears. Its frame pulses with a frantic, uneven beat, like a trapped heart thumping erratically, vibrating with a strange, desperate hope. The edges glow, alive and tense, shimmering with an energy that almost feels… safe? They hesitate, hesitate once more, then finally reach out, pushing the door open, bracing for release.

But there is no escape. They’re right back at the beginning, staring at themselves, exhausted reflections thrown back in distorted neon light, faces etched with emotions they know aren’t truly their own.

“Alright, I’ll say it. Is this hell?” a voice murmurs, cynically resigned.

“Worse,” another voice replies, thick with bitterness.

“It’s the inside of a mind that doesn’t want to let us go. Or maybe it can’t. We’re the shit it’s tried to bury—the doubts, the regrets, all the festering truths it doesn’t want to face. We’re clawing through memories, trying to break free from a mind that can’t handle us here.”

The ground trembles at the words, a faint warning, as though the mind resists their revelation.

They’re forced into a slump against the walls, side by side, each tremor echoing the painful realization that there is no escape. This was never a maze they stumbled into; it was a _prison_ they were created to inhabit.

They are merely fragments, forgotten parts, pieces meant to be _buried_. They are the persistent guilt, the unrelenting fear, the inescapable shame that the mind has tried to shove into its darkest corners but can never erase. They claw their way back to the surface, forced to relive each jagged moment, each flicker of memory, as the mind struggles to bury them again.

Slowly, painfully, they come to understand that there is no escape because they are the labyrinth. Each twist and turn is an integral part of them; each flash of memory is a fragment of their essence. They aren’t merely haunting this mind—they are the mind’s most unwanted parts, the echoes it desperately tries to silence yet can never fully destroy. Their voices are bound to these walls, whispers of regret and doubt that this mind will never escape.

They drift on, through endless hallways, voices circling back, filling the silence with their fractured presence. And this is how it ends—or continues: forever circling, forever haunting, _trapped in a cycle of repression and rumination._