[EPISODE 2 UPDATED AND IMPROVED BY OVENERO | Tuesday, June 16, 2026].
The author narrates.
Vikram surveyed the building's lobby with a thick mixture of physical relief and profound distrust. At least this concrete refuge hadn't crumbled like the cursed town outside; the walls still stood, solid, though deeply worn by neglect. Large holes in the plaster ceiling revealed rusty pipes dripping a thick, dark liquid, while the wallpaper in the hallways barely clung on, hanging in tatters like dead skin that refused to fully peel away.
He approached a window whose wooden frame was riddled with moths and damp. The glass, cracked like cobwebs and covered with a crust of grime, still allowed him a glimpse outside.
Vikram gasped. Outside… there was nothing.
No trees remained. No neighboring buildings. Not even the thick, liquid fog from before. Only absolute, infinite, three-dimensional blackness, as if the entire universe had been viciously erased right at the edges of the structure where he stood.
He pressed his lips together, feeling a dull throb in his temple, and pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen illuminated his intense features with that bluish glow that had accompanied him throughout his years in the digital world. Against all logic, the chat was still running; his followers' comments rained down on the screen:
"Good job, man. A safe place... but something here doesn't add up at all."
"Dude, that woman scared the living daylights out of me, how awful."
"This is real horror! Don't cut the stream, Vikram!"
"Are you sure you're safe there? Double-check the rooms, bro."
The influencer frowned with a disbelief he could no longer hide.
"How the hell is this shit still working…?" he whispered to himself, scrolling with his thumb.
He had a full signal. He had mobile data. He was still live streaming to millions of screens on the other side of the world, in a place that seemed to have been ripped from human geography. That technological anomaly, the persistence of his precious algorithm in the middle of the abyss, impressed and disturbed him far more than the sheer darkness outside.
He decided to move forward. His pride and the need to keep the show going pushed him to raise the stabilizer with a firm hand, pointing the lens toward the shadowy corridor as he modulated his deep, slurred voice, forcing a hint of swagger.
"Guys, this is fucking amazing, seriously. There's not a soul around, it's completely silent," he murmured with a mocking half-smile aimed at the camera, though his dark, always observant eyes no longer conveyed the same brazen confidence as before. His steps were imperceptibly shorter, gauging the dusty floor.
He explored the first floor inch by inch: hallways carpeted with layers of old dirt, empty living rooms with wooden furniture twisted like broken limbs, and scattered office files whose pages crunched under his worn sneakers. The whole building seemed frozen in time, but he didn't feel dead… he felt crouched. Hidden. Like a predator holding its breath.
After several minutes of exhausting walking, a dry, metallic sound ripped through the silence.
CLANG-CRREEECH!
At the end of the main hallway, the doors of an old elevator opened with a piercing screech that didn't sound like rusty gears, but almost like an organic groan, a parched throat being forced open. Inside the cabin, there was no darkness; A deep purple ultraviolet light vibrated inside, pulsing rhythmically against the metal walls like the neon heart of an underground nightclub.
Vikram stopped dead in his tracks. His broad shoulders and straight back instantly tensed, assuming the imposing stance of a boxer on guard. He stared at the illuminated entrance, feeling that the violet light was a direct invitation, an invisible finger pointing at him from the depths of the booth.
"Would it be safe to go in there…?" he muttered through gritted teeth, doubt seeping into his voice for the first time.
He glanced back at his phone, seeking refuge from his audience. Comments rained down with a violent frenzy, as if the viewers were glued to the edge of their seats, feeding off his danger:
"Dude, if I were you, I wouldn't go into that booth for anything."
"What if it's the only way out of the building, bro?"
"Maybe it's the only way out. Don't overthink it and go in, Vikram."
"You only get one shot, man. You either stay there and die, or you get out alive."
Hundreds more messages began overlapping, disrupting the flow of the chat. Some users sent waves of red alert emojis; others started repeating the same phrase over and over, freezing the interface as if the operating system itself were suffering a digital meltdown.
Vikram slowly lowered his phone, averting his gaze from the corrupted screen. His eyes met the purple glow once more. The elevator seemed to throb in perfect sync with his own heartbeat. It made no mechanical sound, yet it felt alive; a geometric mouth barely opening in the gloom, patiently waiting for him to step in and feed.
Outside, the world dissolved into nothingness. Inside, the suffocating silence surrounded him. And in the middle of that void, there he was. Vikram didn't like to wait, and even less did he like feeling cornered by indecision. In this place where the corridors seemed to breathe damp vapor, remaining still was to become weak. He adjusted his tactical backpack, clutched his skateboard under his left arm, and advanced toward the cabin with firm, heavy steps, feigning a bravery that inside was beginning to crack into an icy tremor.
His cell phone was still on, recording his every move. The transmission refused to end.
"All of YouTube needs to see this craziness, seriously…" he muttered, forcing a strained smile and tugging at the collar of his jacket to adjust it, a nervous gesture that betrayed his discomfort.
The elevator car was claustrophobic, astonishingly narrow for his nearly two-meter height. Ultraviolet light flickered across his brown skin and face, casting intimidating blue shadows beneath his dark eyes and highlighting the contours of his muscular arms. He was a purely magnetic sight, a spectacle of flesh and mystery.
Just as he reached out with his free hand to press one of the rusty buttons on the panel, the metal doors slammed shut behind him. The impact was so swift and violent that he didn't even have time to react.
"Shit…!" Vikram muttered a dry curse, swallowing hard. His lethal gaze swept across the corner panels, waiting for some aberration to sprout from the metal seams. "I hope this thing isn't a trap."
There was no background music, no beeps from the floor, no normal vibration of a steel cable. Just a deep, muffled hum that vibrated directly into the bones of his legs, while the ultraviolet light continued to bathe his body in purple waves. The journey lasted only a few eternal seconds.
Clack.
The doors slid open again.
Before Vikram's eyes unfolded an endless corridor, covered in yellowish ceramic tiles that reflected the light in a strange, almost greasy way, mimicking the texture of old skin. Halfway along, the corridor forked: two identical passageways opened to the sides like a pair of crossed arms in rejection.
The influencer peered out cautiously, holding his phone aloft. Nothing. Not a sound. Not even shadows moving at the edges. It was exactly what he expected to find in an abandoned place, but something in his chest tightened so violently that it made it hard to breathe.
He left the booth. The live stream was still going, the chat still buzzing on the screen, but Vikram wasn't reading them anymore. He walked automatically, his muscles tense, as if the thick air itself were guiding him toward a fixed point.
Halfway down the greasy tiled corridor, that street instinct that had never betrayed him in his worst years of youth roared powerfully inside his head. A shiver ran down his spine: someone was watching him from behind. Someone very close. Vikram didn't think. He whirled around and launched a side kick backward, a swift, precise blow charged with the full force of his well-built thighs, designed to shatter any attacker's ribs.
However, his foot didn't strike empty air, nor did it break any bones.
A small hand, with slender fingers but biologically impossible strength, stopped the impact mere centimeters from its trajectory. It did so with astonishing delicacy, as if it had known hours in advance the exact spot where Vikram's shoe was going to explode.
"Good instinct, kid," said a female voice. It was soft, melodic, but possessed a subterranean firmness that chilled the blood.
The figure gracefully moved the influencer's foot out of the way, holding it in the air for a couple of seconds before letting go. Then, she leaned slightly forward to look him straight in the eye, her gaze fixed on him.
Vikram took a half step back to regain his balance, his dark eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, his pulse racing.
"Who the hell are you?" he blurted out in his deepest, driest voice, trying to command respect from the stranger with his imposing stature.
"Oh, well…" the girl smiled mischievously, tilting her head. "The truth is… I can't tell you my real name around here."
She remained perfectly silent for a few seconds, closing her eyes with theatrical deliberation, like someone choosing a final card from a tarot deck. Suddenly, almost dancing on the worn tile floor, she took a small jump backward, snapping her fingers cleanly.
"I've got it!" "You can call me Bi," she smiled from ear to ear, as if that nickname were a private joke between her and the universe.
The witch didn't fit Vikram's mental image of a Silent Hill aberration at all. She didn't have eyes sunken in decay, nor a skeletal laugh that inspired terror. She was dressed entirely in black, yes; a heavy cloak and a hood that framed her features. But her face was insultingly young, beautiful, marked by a magnetic glow that didn't come from the dim light of the hallway, but from the lascivious and analytical way she surveyed the influencer's anatomy.
She didn't seem like an immediate physical threat. Not yet.
"O-okay, Bi," Vikram nodded, subtly lowering his guard for the first time since the outside world had shattered.
The dark hallway seemed to light up strangely with the young woman's mere presence. And although no explicit warning had been given, Vikram knew it deep in his gut: this woman had been waiting for him since the moment he set foot in the village.
The atmosphere in the room where they stood grew thick, almost solid, as if the air weren't meant to be breathed, but rather to hold unspeakable secrets. The ultraviolet glow that filtered from the dying elevator still traced purple lines across the peeling wallpaper. There was something invisible, a dense, hot vibration, hovering between them.
"Do you really know why you're here, Vikram?" she finally asked, her voice a soft whisper that still held a playful smile.
Her gaze was fluid, translucent, shifting in color. Looking into it, Vikram felt a sudden dizziness; it was as if hidden within those pupils were windows onto a ruined city, a corner of torment where souls paid eternal debts.
The influencer watched her with infinite caution. The live stream was still active in his hand; the frame continued to capture his muscular profile and the girl's hooded figure for his millions of viewers hungry for titillation.
"The truth is… I only came here to become famous," Vikram declared with complete conviction, puffing out his chest with pride. "I'm going to record every damn experience I have in this place. Silent Hill seems like the perfect setting to break the internet."
Bi tilted her head, amused, analyzing not the young man's arrogant words, but the subtle tremor hidden between his vocal cords.
"Ah, I see. Fame. That's what you want so badly, isn't it?"
Vikram nodded with a firm movement of his chin, though a drop of cold sweat began to trace the contour of his brown neck, trickling down toward his chest.
"Well… and what do you expect to gain from that?" the witch persisted, interlacing her slender fingers behind her back. She spoke with the measured pace of someone observing a game she'd seen repeated for centuries.
The Venezuelan responded with sudden enthusiasm, the Caribbean spark igniting in his eyes as he recalled the dream he still believed he had under control.
"Well, I'm planning to buy a private beach, you know? I want to be three times as famous as I am now, doing my own thing, with pockets full of cash and surrounded by gorgeous girls." "This is crazy!"
Bi nodded rhythmically, maintaining eye contact, transforming the dialogue into a ritual of confession. She didn't interrupt. She didn't judge. She simply let Vikram's pride dig its own grave.
"I want to keep messing around the world, enjoying life and…" Vikram paused briefly. His large fingers moved out of the camera's frame for a second and gripped the wooden truck of the skateboard he held under his arm tightly, betraying a sudden wave of shyness. "Well, you know… I want to have a lot of sex with beautiful women. Live that life to the fullest."
It was at that precise moment that Bi stopped dead in her tracks. Her playful smile transformed into a sharp, perfect, and cold line, like a musical note suspended in mid-air.
"Do you really want to be surrounded by girls that much? To have sex with them all the time?" she inquired in a quiet voice.
Vikram hesitated, suddenly feeling exposed under the witch's liquid gaze. He ran his free hand over the back of his neck, a faint blush appearing on his tanned cheeks. Talking about his intimate needs in front of a real woman, face to face and outside the safety of a screen, always triggered that shield of emotional nervousness he hated so much.
"Let's see… I don't feel so comfortable talking about this stuff with some chick I just met…" he muttered, averting his gaze for a second before forcing himself to regain his dominant posture. He managed a shy but forced smile. "But yes. I do want that. Or rather, I need it and I want it, why would I lie to you?"
On his phone, the stream continued devouring data. The comments from the live audience began to change drastically in tone, adopting a murky and lascivious vibe:
"Dude, you and I have the exact same desire, what a life!"
" "That witch smiles too much, Vikram. I don't get a good feeling about her. Get out of there now."
"You should have started with that, my love… If you want sex, I'm here."
"I can be yours when you get out of that town, Vikramsex12. Make me yours."
But Vikram wasn't looking at the screen anymore. Not this time. His dark eyes were completely fixed on Bi. The witch no longer had the attitude of a mere curious spectator in the hallway. Her posture had changed; she looked like a farmer who had just harvested the ripest and juiciest fruit from the orchard.
The word "sex" hung in the thick air of the building, dense and heavy like the invisible smoke of a bonfire. Bi, with her smile still on and her eyes shining with an ancient fire, took a soft, almost feline step toward the gigantic influencer.
"So… I know perfectly well what kind of desire will be at the heart of your trial, Vikram…" she murmured in a dangerously playful tone.
Vikram tried to decipher the phrase with his usual sarcasm, but something deep in the witch's milky pupils warned him that the die was cast. His fate had just been sealed in the silence of the underworld.