Sweat plastered to his back, heart hammering like a blacksmith's forge, a 16-year-old Creed Gryffon dragged himself through a dark, blood- and feces-scented passage. His trembling hand gripped a flashlight, its beam a frail shield against the nocturnal reptiles scuttling away from his feet. Foggy breath obscured his vision, each laboured step a descent into an impending doom.

Chills raced down his spine, his feet screaming for escape, yet an irrational flicker of hope propelled him onward. The tunnel walls oozed a noxious wisp of fumes, making his skin itch and his stomach churn. A chilling realization dawned: the situation had worsened.

His throat felt like sandpaper, a biting sensation on his skin. He fumbled for a half-empty water bottle from his sling bag and took a desperate gulp. Quenching his thirst, he quickened his pace, acutely aware of the fumes' corrosive nature. After a grueling half-hour, he stopped, contemplating his next move, eyes darting for any threats. He pressed against the corrosive wall, caressing it as if it were a lover's skin—warm and tender. Then, from his bag, he pulled a palm-sized carbon-fiber handle, engraved with unusual letters. The handle seemed to recognize his touch, and a sharp, lustrous metallic blade sprang forth. With a swift stroke, he hacked a deep, clean cut into the wall, repeating until the tear was large enough to squeeze through. Cleaning his blade, he re-sheathed it, then cautiously stepped into the newly made cleavage.