Flooded backrooms

Dragon’s eyes slowly open as he’s immediately hit with the smell of rubber and the quiet hum of the water. Through his scuba mask he sees an extremely long pool that just seems to go on and on forever. There’re a few doors along the walls and a small bag lying on the ground in front of him with some his scattered belongings, most of them smashed, wet and useless. This hall is completely flooded, no air pockets. Vilmir frantically looks at his oxygen indicator — it showed 99% in air tank. But it is all he get in possession. When it turns to 0 — only air in his lungs will left, and stuffiness will grow… and suffocation along with erotic asphyxia, slowly burning Vilmir from inside, to hot and bubbly death. Fear rise in dragon’s chest, heart pounder more often, and soft dick harden and bloats behind his strongly tighten slit between plates of scales under his belly. Oh, not now… It only makes air burn faster, already 1% lost in vividly horrific dreams. Vilmir strokes his flippers and swims to a bag, searching for something useful there. There’s his own stuff, but damaged, except his credit card, the most useless thing here, and a magic ring with the green stone of energy — probably useful to ally with weak creature of nature. 97% of oxygen supply — the arrow on indicator teasingly crawls to the other end of green zone. Vilmir must find the way out quickly. So he starts to check the doors out of the pool he appeared inside, full of water up to the roof. Will it be dragon’s waterly grave or just a temporary prison he can escape — who knows? Vilmir swims up to the first door, his heart pounding in his chest as the oxygen indicator ticks down. He grasps the handle with his sharp claws and pulls, but it won’t budge. The door is locked tight. 95% oxygen left, the indicator creeps lower as Vilmir desperately tries the next door. This one opens, revealing a small office room, also filled to the brim with murky water. A desk sits in the corner, covered in scattered papers and objects. A few vending machines hum quietly along the wall. Ah, his credit card seems not so useless now… If Vilmir needs food and fresh coffie, but probably his air can run out earlier. But this machinery works, so this complex is supplied with electricity, and here’s some civilisation at hand, so… air for living, too? Vilmir hesitates, his breath coming faster now. The air supply is dwindling, and the suffocating feeling grows with each passing second. He looks to the desk, hoping to find something useful, anything that could help him escape this watery prison. The magic ring glints on his finger, the green stone seeming to pulse with an otherworldly energy. It’s his only hope. Along with other books and papers, there’s a letter on a table, addressed to Vilmir himself. He reads, trembling in angst: “Here’s a lesson, prise and punishment you deserve for ruining my plans. But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart”, and signed by his yandere unmutually lover. Vilmir’s heart races as he reads the ominous letter, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. The oxygen levels plummet, now at a critical 92%. He knows he doesn’t have much time left. With trembling claws, he rifles through the desk drawers, tossing aside useless papers and objects. In the bottom drawer, he finds a small, locked box. Using his sharp talons, Vilmir pries it open, revealing a single key inside. The key is labeled “Emergency Exit”. Hope surges in Vilmir’s chest as he grabs it and swims rapidly to the door opposite the office, his flippers pounding against the water. He tries the key in the lock, and the lock clicks open. Vilmir pushes the door open, revealing a dark, narrow tunnel stretching out before him. He takes a desperate gulp, the oxygen indicator now flashing red at 89%. In the distance, Vilmir hears a strange splashing sound, growing louder and closer. Something large and dark looms in the depths of the tunnel. His heart pounds as he realizes he may have just traded one prison for another. He must keep moving, keep fighting. The magic ring pulses on his finger, its green stone seeming to glow brighter in the darkness. With a deep breath, Vilmir surges forward into the unknown depths of the tunnel, chasing the fading hope of escape and life. Steel pipes, old and cold, line all the surfaces of the corridor, insides of some factory, boiler plant or power facility with unknown purpose in unfamiliar location. And with some sort of guardian, probably accustomed to underwater places, unlike Vilmir with his mesmerizing, life-giving digits of oxygen pressure 88%. Vilmir swims deeper into the narrow, steel-lined tunnel, his heart pounding against his ribcage. The cold metal walls seem to close in around him, the darkness pressing in from all sides. The oxygen indicator ticks down mercilessly, now at a critical 87%. Suddenly, the splashing sound grows deafening, and a massive, dark shape emerges from the abyss. It’s a creature of the deep, with a body as long as Vilmir is tall and a tail that coils and undulates through the water with terrifying grace. The beast opens its jaws wide, revealing rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth, and lets out a bone-chilling roar that resonates through the steel corridor. It’s clear this guardian of the depths sees Vilmir as an intruder, a threat to its domain. Vilmir’s breath comes in desperate, burning gulps as he tries to swim faster, his flippers slapping against the cold metal walls. The oxygen indicator flashes urgently at 85%. He knows he can’t outswim this creature for long, not in his weakened state. Up ahead, a dim light glimmers at the end of the tunnel. It could be another dead end, or it could be the way out, the chance to breathe free air again. Vilmir takes a final, searing breath and pushes himself harder, the magic ring burning against his finger like a brand. The Leviathan surges forward, jaws snapping just inches behind Vilmir’s tail. He can feel its icy breath on his scales, hear the terrifying power of its fury. With a primal roar of his own, , he turns to the beast — maybe he can’t outswim it, but can charm? He stretches his arm to the entity, green gem pulses and dwindels, releasing it’s energy. The green gem pulses and flares, its energy radiating outwards in a shimmering wave. To Vilmir’s astonishment, the Phantom Leviathan halts its pursuit. Its eyes, once filled with rage and hunger, now regard him with a strange, almost curious intensity. The creature’s massive form begins to flicker and fade, as if the ring’s power is consuming it. In a matter of moments, the beast vanishes completely, leaving no trace behind. Vilmir blinks, hardly believing his desperate gambit worked. Around him, the tunnel remains still and silent, the only sound his own ragged breathing. But there’s no time to waste. Vilmir’s oxygen supply is critically low, the indicator now at 80%. He turns back to the dim light at the end of the tunnel and surges forward with renewed determination. A few more powerful strokes of his flippers bring him to the source of the light. It’s a rusted metal door, half-hidden in the murky depths. Vilmir grabs the handle, his claws digging into the metal, and pulls with all his remaining strength. The door creaks open, revealing a small, circular room filled with bubbling pipes and whirring machinery. Directly opposite, a ladder leads up to a manhole cover set into the ceiling. Shafts of sunlight pierce through the grates, promising the sweet relief of fresh air and freedom. Vilmir rises there with a couple of leg kicks and tail wavings, to the mockingly close, but yet unreachable surface above the railing. Its hatch is locked on a four-digit code lock. Vilmir claws grip the cold ladder rungs, his chest heaving as the oxygen indicator blinks 75%. The manhole cover above taunts him — thick steel bars crisscrossing its surface, secured by a digital lock glowing with red numerals. His delicate paws can’t bend the reinforced metal, and the four-digit code mocks him from its display. The whirring machinery below sends vibrations through the ladder. Steam hisses from a fractured pipe nearby, creating swirling patterns in the water. On the control panel beneath the manhole, Vilmir spots a faded label: “Ventilation Override — Code: Check The Book”. His distraction intensifies. Blood pounds hotly in his groin, the trapped erection throbbing against his sealed slit with each frantic heartbeat. The pressure builds, a maddening counterpoint to his dwindling air supply. As he scans the room for clues, something shifts in the bubbling water below. A figure materializes beside the ladder. Fluffy dragon young male — pale, almost transparent — stands waist-deep in the churning water, his calm blue eyes that seem to glow in the dim light. He holds out a hand, palm upward: “You seem troubled, traveler. Speak one need, and I shall fulfill it — but know this: if you seek freedom’s path, my aid will lead you only to the Master’s door.” The water swirls around the Helper’s legs as he waits, his gaze fixed on Vilmir. The oxygen indicator pulses: 73%. Steam of exhaled bubbles continues to bulb, the sound merging with Vilmir’s own ragged breathing and the relentless throb of his trapped arousal. Vilmir stares at the figure — first somewhat intelligent being encountered in flooded facility is more like a hologram assistant. Such a cutting edge tech in otherwise old-looking facility?.. It startles… and arises even more questions Vilmir can’t even ask, as his muzzle is in diving mask, preventing him to inhale water, and his jaws hold the hose mouthpiece tightly. But, at least, this guy doesn’t seems dangerous. So Vilmir starts to think, while his tail penduling in warm water currents, hips rubbing rach other slightly, bubbles playing out of mask, and delicate claws stroking his air clock showing 72% of life-giving gase left. Code… seems that this helper won’t say it, but he can fetch the book where it can be found. But does this hatch is really the final obstacle on the way to freedom, or just another track like previous lock and key? Could that mysterious Master be more sure way out of this watery metal hell? So bad there is no time to think… And could the helper, if not release Vilmir, give him endless air supply? That will much strench the time given at least… His body asks for something diametrically different, and even someone… But it’s a honey trap… His mind understands it even as Vilmir struggles to wave arousal out. “Mrbulb”, finally Vilmir moans and bubbles through hissing of inhales and exhales. He rises one hand to show a muscle, figurally telling in sign language that he needs something of power to survive and forge his own way out, become stronger and knowledgeable in process. The figure tilts his head, eyes flickering with understanding: “Power to endure… wisdom to carve your path… a worthy request.” The hologram raises his hand. A sphere of crackling blue light coalesces above his palm—not an illusion, but something pulsing with tangible energy. It drifts toward Vilmir and fuses into his chest scales. The oxygen indicator freezes at 71%, its ticking silenced. Air flows rich and cool into Vilmir’s lungs, infinite for now. But cold seeps under his scales where the orb embedded. Knowledge floods Vilmir's mind at the same moment: schematics of the facility, pressure systems, pipe networks… and the code. Not the book, but The Book. It glows in his thoughts like neon. The helper’s form begins dissolving into the churning water: “Survive. Learn. But remember—strength borrowed is a chain.” He vanishes. Above, the lock panel glows. Vilmir punches with a claw the chapter and the verse of that biblical mockery in the note. Gears grind. The manhole cover slides open, revealing another cavernous chamber — a vast saltwater reservoir stretching into gloom, lit by bioluminescent algae. The ladder leads directly into its depths. Below him, the hatch slams shut permanently. Trapped again, but breathing freely. Warm currents swirl around Vilmir’s hips. The orb’s chill battles the heat coiling in his groin, arousal unabated. In the distance, Vilmer glimpses a movement of little mermaids, darting between coral outcrops, their scales shimmering like shattered rainbows. But, at least, they haven’t noticed Vilmir yet. One clutches a glinting object—a tarnished brass key half-buried in seaweed. A key without a lock… This may be untimely, and probably even not needed. And mermaids are known for they ability to tickle to the death, if not drown trespassers. Such a tantalising offer, but Vilmir grabs his will to refuse the siren calling of young scaly females, and dexterously swim away in search of new solutions. Water strokes his body, caressing every curve, heating out his inner cold by the prise of all too caressing tease of erotic currents. Vilmir's scales shimmering under the algae’s ghostly glow as he navigates the inky water. The currents coil around his body — hot and intimate against his belly slit, cold and heavy where the Helper’s orb pulses beneath his chest plates — an agonizing duality. He swims deeper into the cavern, away from temptation, toward a cluster of rusted machinery half-buried in silt. His path takes him past towering filtration units, their grates clogged with kelp and barnacles. The silence is thick. Oppressive. But suddenly... A skeletal hand jumps from a filter grate. Bone fingers clamp around Vilmir’s ankle, cold and unyielding. Another hand erupts from a second grate, seizing his wrist. Then another. And another. Six disembodied limbs materialize from the machinery, dragging him toward the largest filter — a gaping, dark maw whirring with industrial hunger. Rust flakes drift like blood in water as the hands pull hard. The filter’s mouth yawns wider. Inside of it spinning blades glint. Vilmir thrashes, wings beating against the drag, tail lashing. The hands tighten. One peels back a scale near his hip, exposing softer hide beneath. Another claws at the straps of his scuba tank. The blades spin faster, closer. A shadow detaches from the filter’s darkness. A head floats into view—pale, waterlogged, eyes milky and dead. Its silent and hungry jaw unhinges. The other hands redouble their effort. Metal groans as the filter’s blades inch toward Vilmir’s tail. Vilmir push out the orb through his ring, guiding its cold energy to malevolent hands, mad face and unyelding fan. Ring breaks by high peak of raw magic. The green stone shatters in an explosion of freezing light. Vilmir screams, muffled by his regulator, as shards of the ring embed in his claw—splintering bone, drawing swirls of dark dragon blood. The orb’s energy detonates outward in a glacial wave with a loud CRACK, and the skeletal hands recoil, their fingers snapping like dry twigs. The floating head screeches silently, its milky eyes freezing solid before it implodes into bone dust. The whirring filter blades stall, encrusted instantly in thick, jagged ice. But the victory is brutal. O₂ plummets anew: 70% — and falling fast. The hiss of precious air floods Vilmir’s ears. His right hand is mangled, blood clouding the water. His hip scale hangs loose, raw flesh exposed. Where the orb sat before, an icy hollow now gnaws at his core — a sucking wound in his vitality. A dark maintenance shaft yawns open — rusted ladder rungs leading upward into pitch blackness. A way forward... or deeper into the trap. Movement flickers in Vilmir’s periphery: the mermaids have followed him, eyes wide with primal fury, teeth bared, coral-tipped spears appearing in tiny hands. And the trapped, half-crushed limbs twitch, reforming. Blood and pain is less a problem due to draconic regeneration — but dangerous girls are. Vilmir surges into the shaft just as a coral spear grazes his tail. He slams the heavy hatch shut with a clang, spinning the manual wheel-lock until it groans and thunks into place. Instantly, the furious chittering and scraping of tiny claws against metal fills the shaft below him — sealed in, but safe for now. His blood swirls in the stagnant water, dark tendrils coiling upwards. He flicks on the flashlight strapped to his horn. Its beam cuts through the murk, illuminating a narrow vertical tunnel crusted with rust and slime. The ladder rungs are slick, ancient iron. He starts climbing, his injured hand screaming with each pull, cold radiating from his core where the Helper’s orb had been. Oxygen ticks down relentlessly: 65%. The shaft ascends perhaps thirty feet, ending abruptly at another hatch — this one smaller, circular, made of riveted steel. It looks… permanently sealed. Vilmir braces against the ladder, panting against his regulator, the beam of his light sweeping desperately over the metal surface, seeking a lever, a wheel, anything. His light catches movement above. Perched on the curved ceiling of the shaft, like a gargoyle defying gravity, sits a figure. Seven feet tall, radiating an aura of absolute stillness and ancient power. Short, slick black hair frames an androgynous face of impossible beauty, dominated by eyes that burn like molten rubies in the flashlight’s glare. Black feathered wings, immense and shadowy, are folded tightly against a lean, powerful frame clad in what looks like liquid darkness. A long, barbed tail flicks lazily, sending ripples through the water. Its red gaze locks onto Vilmir, pinning him like an insect. There’s no anger, no hunger — only profound, chilling interest. It smiles, revealing sharp white teeth. When it speaks, its voice resonates directly in Vilmir’s mind, smooth as wet velvet and cold as the abyss: “Clever little dragon. You break toys, charm monsters, bargain with echoes… and still you climb. Still you bleed. Still you WANT… despite the cage tightening.” Its head tilts, the smile widening fractionally. "The air burns in your lungs, doesn’t it? The cold eats at your courage, and the heat… as the need… festers. Such delicious struggle. But climbing this shaft? It leads only back to me. Everything does, eventually.” It extends a pale hand invitingly, the gesture encompasses the crushing water, the dwindling air, the pain, the maddening arousal that thrums beneath Vilmir’s scales despite the terror. “Why chase doors that only lock behind you? Why not chase the one who holds all the keys? Find me, Vilmir Everway. Not through hatches and shafts. Find me where the water holds its breath and the shadows dance for no one. Prove this struggle isn’t just… amusing entropy.” With an unnerving smile that holds promises both terrible and inexplicable, the creature's form flickers. Not truly vanishing, but dissolving into the shadows clinging to the ceiling, leaving only the impression of burning red eyes that fade slowly, like wetted embers. The shaft is silent again. Oppressively silent. The sealed hatch looms above, impassable. Below, the mini mermaids' furious scrabbling has stopped. They know what dwells here now. The ladder is slick with Vilmir’s blood. His oxygen reads 63%. The flashlight beam trembles slightly on the unyielding steel hatch. The shadow’s words echo: Find me where the water holds its breath… That was something deeper than the water, the space, as even water creatures can't breath there, and shadows extend into infinity. Vilmir expanded his consciousness. His physical form unravels: scales become nebulae, blood becomes comet trails, and his body dissolves into a silhouette woven from cosmic dust and dying stars. The mangled hand, the torn hip, the suffocating need for air — all gone. Only a scar remains: a swirling black hole or a dark nebula over his heart, pulsing with cold, devouring light. The shaft around Vilmir shatters. Not physically — but perceptually. The rusted walls dissolve into fractals of starlight. The water transforms into liquid void, shimmering with constellations. He floats in an ocean of infinite depth and silence. This is the Backrooms’ skeleton — the reality beneath the illusion. The shaft is now a vertical tunnel of fractured spacetime. Below, the mermaids are mere blurs of bioluminescent rage, frozen in a lower vibrational layer. The undead limbs are ghostly afterimages, crumbling into entropy. And above… The sealed hatch is gone. In its place gaps a singularity, a gravitational maelstrom where spacetime folds inward. Tendrils of shadow stretch from it like roots, feeding on the fabric of this realm. This is the anchor point, the source of this dimension. The shadow’s voice vibrates through the quantum foam, no longer words, but a pressure on Vilmir’s star-forged consciousness: "Closer, little nova. You feel it now. The wound where all things end. The silence where water forgets it is water." The singularity pulses, Vilmir’s scar echoes it — a screaming void pulling at his essence. Around him, the true nature of the Backrooms reveals itself: the "pools" are wounds in reality — bleeding dimensions; the "doors" are frayed quantum threads, snapping and reweaving, the "entities" are thought-forms—echoes of lost souls given shape by the Master’s will. The singularity above throbs: "All paths lead to me. Even the ones you burn yourself." Vilmir’s starry form flickers, as the scar drinks light. The dragon releases the consuming void within him: the black hole scar over his heart tears free — a screaming orb of anti-light — and hurtles toward the singularity above. In a moment, the two devouring darknesses collide. Reality buckles. Light bends into impossible spirals. Time stutters. The Master’s roar is pure fury — a sound that cracks the fabric of the star-sea. In that split second of cosmic distraction, Vilmir dives downward, not through water, but through the static. It isn’t empty, though. The static is the raw potential beneath the Backrooms — a churning ocean of fragmented realities, half-formed dimensions, and dying echoes. It tears at his energy-form like acid. Memories flash: chlorine pools, skeletal hands, the hologram’s cold gift, the mermaids’ glittering fury. They claw at him, trying to anchor him back into the nightmare. But he is starlight and will. He surges deeper, the static resolving into a lattice of shimmering threads — frayed quantum pathways. Most lead back to the collapsing black holes above. Some spiral into voids. One… the one glows with the faint, warm resonance of outside freedom. Vilmir reaches for it. A shadow falls over the thread. The Master manifests not as a singularity, but as an avatar of finality. Its form is a silhouette cut from the static itself—wings of fractured light, eyes like dying suns. It doesn’t speak. It strikes. A blade of distilled entropy slices toward the glowing thread—and Vilmir’s outstretched hand. With desperate precision, he thrusts his credit card into its path. The card — imprinted with 63142 cubits, a number heavy with mortal greed and tangible worth — meets the blade. Mundanity collides with cosmic decay. The entropy blade splinters. Reality bleeds. For a nanosecond, Vilmir sees a rain-slicked city street at dusk, smelling of wet asphalt and fried food. A neon sign flickering: "OPEN". The Master's avatar recoils, shadows unraveling like burnt film. That glimpse of the real world—loud, grimy, alive—is poison to it. "NO..." the static howls, but Vilmir is already moving. He seizes the glowing thread of escape. With a final surge of will, he pulls. Vilmir crashes onto a rain-soaked rooftop. Real air — thick with diesel fumes and distant sirens — fills his lungs. He’s solid again. Whole. But changed. The mangled hand is healed, but new scales gleam painfully pale. The hip wound is sealed, yet a jagged, starburst scar tears across his chest where the void tore free. The scuba gear is gone, only damp scales and the chill night wind remain. The credit card is ash, scattered by the wind. 63142 cubits—gone. The brass key from the mermaids lies beside him, tarnished but thrumming with latent power. A single green shard of his shattered ring glints coldly in a puddle. The city stretches below — endless towers, blinking lights, the hum of a world that doesn’t know incoherent monsters. Freedom. But Backrooms aren’t done. The brass key vibrates. The scar on Vilmir’s chest pulses silver, echoing Master’s laughter: "You took a piece of my kingdom, little dragon. And I took a piece of you."