The Descent Protocol

In the heart of a forgotten industrial district, an aging concrete tower looms over the skyline—choked with vines, boarded windows, and stories no one wants to believe. Deep within this abandoned building, hidden behind rusted steel doors and warning placards bleached by time, lies an elevator unlike any other.

 

There are no labeled floors. No emergency Button. Just a single, unlit button: ▼. The elevator only descends.

 

When you step inside and press the button, it shudders to life with unnatural groans. The walls tremble. The numbers above flicker through symbols and characters that don't exist in any known language.

 

Every ride takes you to a newly generated subterranean labyrinth—tunnels of concrete, meat, ore, bone, and sometimes impossible materials that shimmer in ways the human eye can't quite comprehend. The architecture shifts between industrial ruin, ancient temple, grotesque biological mass, and alien machine.

 

the deeper you go, the more everything grows:

 

The Tunnels stretch longer, twist deeper. They begin to curve, spiral, loop into impossible geometry. Gravity gets heavier. Sound travels slower—or faster.

 

The Scale changes. What was once a hallway becomes a chasm. Doors become gates. You begin to feel small. Insignificant.

 

The Inhabitants evolve. At first, they’re only normal bugs—cockroaches, centipedes, spiders. Then they begin to change longer limbs, extra eyes, bioluminescent organs, erratic movement patterns, some mimicking human speech in fractured echoes.

 

The Bugs get smarter. They start leaving traps. They begin mimicking the elevator hum. Some seem to… remember you.

 

And still, the elevator only goes down.

 

You can always return to the elevator if you find it. But the longer you're away, the more it seems to move, as if the tunnels themselves are trying to hide it from you. As if they want to keep you.

 

None who descend ever return.