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Rated: XGC · Interactive · None · #2343456

Survive bruh

This choice: Attempt to run out of the Kitchen  •  Go Back...
Chapter #2

Entering the Bathroom

    by: Jb12688 Author IconMail Icon
The instant you hear the hard heel of Kristen’s hiking boot scrape the tile, you dart away from the porcelain debris and make a beeline for the staff bathroom, just beyond the hallway door. Your bare feet slap against the cold linoleum, legs pumping, muscles screaming. The world is vast, overwhelming, every shadow a chasm, every object a monolith.

The hallway looms wide and endless, but you focus on the thin gap beneath the bathroom door—less than an inch, but more than enough. You dive forward just as Kristen’s boots stomp into the kitchen behind you.

A draft trails in your wake as you slip into the bathroom.

You land hard on cold tile slick with condensation. The room smells faintly of lavender disinfectant, undercut by the musty staleness of mop water. Above you, a long, flickering fluorescent light hums with a dying buzz, making the shadows twitch and stretch.

The scale of everything hits you again—like falling into a new world. The toilet alone is a porcelain tower, stained near the base with faint yellow streaks, the bowl’s underside crusted with mildew dots. A roll of paper towel dangles like a wall-sized scroll from the metal dispenser, its edge damp from prior use. The trash bin in the corner overflows with balled-up tissues, pads, and wrappers—its metal foot pedal now a massive slab poised like a trapdoor trigger.

A gurgle echoes from the plumbing.

Then the creak of a door in the hallway.

Footsteps.

Someone’s coming.

You look frantically around—nowhere obvious to hide except under the sink, behind the toilet, or deep into the shadows behind the trash bin where the cleaning supplies are stored. You sprint for cover, feet skidding on the moisture-slick tile just as the bathroom door swings open with a creeeeak.

Thunk. Thunk.

Low heels this time.

Taylor.

She hums softly, distracted, phone glowing in her hand. She doesn’t glance down. She steps in—her soft, plump silhouette towering overhead—and click, pushes the lock behind her with her thumb.

Then she lets out a tired sigh and plops her phone onto the sink with a clatter.

She doesn’t see you. Yet.
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