"Reality has a nasty habit of not following the script."
***
The tunnels were wrong.
Not catastrophically wrong. Not the kind of wrong that would derail my carefully laid plans or force me to improvise on the spot.
But the subtle differences from the novel's descriptions nagged at me like a splinter buried just beneath the skin. Impossible to ignore. Growing more irritating with every step we took deeper into the darkness.
The air was thick with a moisture it absolutely shouldn't have possessed. A humidity that clung to exposed skin and seemed to smother the very light from our torches. Each breath felt heavy. Like trying to inhale through a damp cloth pressed against my face.
The walls wept condensation in steady rivulets that traced dark paths down the stone. Pooled in the uneven floor. Made every step treacherous.
And the phosphorescent moss that should have provided adequate lighting according to the novel's detailed descriptions?
