“I think we’re lost,” the boy next to me whispered.
      “We are lost,” I muttered.
      “How did we even get here?” he asked, looking around the dark corridors of the building.
      “I think we took a wrong turn when we were following the tour guide.” The group had gone far ahead of us while I was looking at my phone, aimlessly scrolling (while the boy had attempted to talk with me) to show I was uninterested.
     Unfortunately, the boy couldn't take a hint.
     “What's your name?” he questioned, running a hand through his blonde hair.
     “Ava,” I responded curtly, not bothering to ask him his name in return.
     After a long silence, he awkwardly said, “Well, I’m Jonathan. But you can call me Jon.”
     Frankly, I couldn’t care less about Joe Schmo or Jon Schmon.
     After murmuring a half-hearted “Mmphmm,” I walked ahead, following the twists and turns of the beige hallway, thinking we should’ve turned back long before. Lost in thought, I came upon—
      “Is that blood?”
      It was dark red, like the polished apples at a store. “Y-yup.” I eyed the congealing liquid in front of me disdainfully.
     “I think we should go back.”
     “I think we should follow it.” I said, sighing.
     Reckless as always. No wonder Mom sent me away.
     For some time, we walked, attempting to settle within a tense silence as my brown eyes twitched.
     We came upon a door. It was painted black, conspicuous under the fluorescent lighting. The silver knob was stained with blood.
     I turned to Jon. “You wanna do this?”
     He looked at me for a few moments, sizing me up as if he was trying to emulate my imagined confidence. He nodded.
     I reached for the knob, my nimble fingers trying to grasp the areas that flashed silver. However, before I could twist it, the door opened.
     Holding the knob, a sinister looking old man smiled, his decayed teeth giving me an unsettling feeling. Behind him lay illuminated screens that showed hallways. He was following our every move within the building, I thought. My stomach churned wildly, making me want to throw up.
     An innate instinct whispered: run.
     The man smirked.
     “I’ve been waiting for you.”