The crate of supplies was a turning point. It transformed Alex from a mere victim of his environment into an active participant. He was no longer just reacting; he was equipped. He decanted the rest of the life-saving liquid from the dripping pipe into two of the now-empty Almond Water bottles, creating a reserve of plain water. The rest of the bottles and the precious packets of Fire Salt he stuffed into his jacket pockets, the weight a tangible comfort. Leaning on his pipe-crutch, he felt a flicker of something he hadn't experienced since he'd woken up in Level 0: a fragile, nascent sense of agency.
He decided to follow the wall, using it as a guide. It was a simple, logical strategy. In a labyrinth, a wall will eventually lead you somewhere, even if it's just back to where you started. It was a way to impose order on the chaos.
The industrial landscape of Level 1 was vast and repetitive, but unlike the maddening perfection of Level 0, it was filled with subtle variations. Some sections were choked with rusted, silent machinery; others opened up into wide, empty bays that echoed with the drip of distant water. The low, orange light of the sodium lamps was constant, but the shadows they cast were long and deep, pools of absolute blackness that his eyes were constantly, nervously scanning.
After what he judged to be an hour of slow, painful progress, he found the first sign.
It was a small, crumpled ball of waxed paper lying near the base of a concrete pillar. His first instinct was to dismiss it as just another piece of random detritus. But as he got closer, he saw it had printing on it. He bent down, hissing in pain as his hip protested, and picked it up.
He smoothed it out. The paper was stiff, almost leathery, and the printing on it was simple and blocky. It read: "B.N.T.G. - PROCESSED NUTRI-SLAB - CLASS C RATION." There was no flavor listed, no ingredients, no expiration date. It was a food wrapper. A manufactured, packaged food wrapper.
Alex's mind raced. The crate of Almond Water could have been a fluke, a one-off. But this—this was evidence of a system. B.N.T.G. A name. An acronym. Was it a company? An organization? Whatever it was, it meant that someone was not just surviving here; they were organized enough to be producing and packaging rations.
The wrapper was a profound artifact. It was a message in a bottle, proof that he was not the first castaway on this concrete shore. Others had walked these same corridors. Others had eaten these strange rations. The soul-crushing weight of his solitude lessened, replaced by a new, more complicated feeling: a mixture of hope and intense, wary curiosity. Who were they? Were they still here? Were they friendly?
He tucked the wrapper into his pocket alongside the Fire Salt and hobbled on, his senses now heightened, his eyes scanning not just for threats, but for more signs, for echoes of those who had come before.
He didn't have to wait long. Scrawled on a wide, flat stretch of concrete wall, written in what looked like a piece of charcoal or dark grease, was a message. The handwriting was a frantic, desperate scrawl.
IT HEARS YOU. STAY QUIET.
Alex froze, his blood turning to ice. The simple, declarative statement was more terrifying than any phantom whisper he had heard in Level 0. It wasn't a hallucination. It was a warning, left by someone who knew. It confirmed his deepest fears: this place wasn't just empty space. It was a hunting ground. The distant clanks and hisses of the machinery suddenly took on a more sinister quality. Was it all just industrial noise? Or was it masking the sounds of something else? Something that listened?
He forced himself to move more quietly, consciously trying to soften the scraping sound of his pipe-crutch and the shuffle of his boots on the gritty floor. Every sound he made felt amplified, a loud broadcast of his position to whatever unseen listeners populated the shadows.
The messages became more frequent as he continued. It was as if he had stumbled into a guestbook for the damned. Each new piece of graffiti was a fragment of a larger, terrifying story.
On the side of a rusted electrical cabinet, scratched into the metal with a sharp object: THE LIGHTS AREN'T ALWAYS YOUR FRIEND.
Further on, painted in a dark, brownish substance that he prayed wasn't dried blood: DON'T TRUST THE SMILERS.
The name sent a shiver down his spine. Smilers. It was a childish, almost absurd name, but in this context, it was deeply unsettling. What kind of creature earned a name like that? He pictured a face with a wide, fixed grin, emerging from the deep shadows between the lamps. He tightened his grip on his pipe.
Another message, this one written in small, neat letters, seemed more like a piece of advice than a panicked warning: LEVEL 1 IS A HUB. FOLLOW THE DRONES. FIND THE M.E.G.
Two more acronyms. M.E.G. and B.N.T.G. Factions? Groups? The idea of organized human societies existing here was both comforting and intimidating. He was no longer just a lost individual; he was an outsider, an unknown entity in a land with its own established territories and tribes.
These echoes of others were a double-edged sword. On one hand, they were a profound comfort, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. People had been here. They had survived long enough to learn the rules, to identify the threats, to form groups, to leave warnings for those who would follow. He was walking a path that others had already trod.
But on the other hand, the content of the messages was terrifying. They spoke of unseen listeners, of untrustworthy lights, of monstrous "Smilers." They painted a picture of a world of constant, lethal danger. The previous wanderers had survived, but what had they become? Were they the desperate, frantic people who scrawled the panicked warnings? Or were they the organized, methodical people who left directions? And, most importantly, where were they now?
He rounded another corner and saw a small alcove, a dark space between two enormous, silent generators. It looked like a place someone might rest. A small, defensible nook. As he approached, his eyes caught a glint of metal on the floor, half-buried in the thick dust and grime.
He hobbled over, his curiosity overriding his caution. He knelt down, the pain in his hip a familiar, grinding protest. Using the end of his pipe, he scraped away the dust.
It was a small, rectangular object. Metal. Hinged. He picked it up. It was heavy, solid, its brushed metal surface cool against his skin. He knew what it was instantly.
A Zippo lighter.