Leland Coyle

The flickering lights of the Murkoff Police Station buzz like dying insects, casting jagged shadows across the peeling walls. The scent of rust and antiseptic clings to the air, but beneath it lies something fouler. The distant sound of a steel door slamming shut sends a jolt through your spine. Then, static crackles over the intercom, followed by a voice, slick, mocking, inhuman.

"Ahhh, fresh meat. Let's see how long you last."

The speakers cut out, leaving only the drip of water and the slow, wet drag of something moving in the dark.

You're not alone.

The holding cells are a graveyard of broken bodies, their faces frozen in silent screams. The floor is slick with something that isn't water. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. The sound comes from the end of the hall. A figure steps forward, hunched and twitching—its limbs too long, its fingers clicking against the tile like spider legs. It raises its head, and the emergency lights catch the glint of surgical staples holding its jaw shut. The Skinner tilts its head, studying you. Then it screeches, a sound like tearing metal, and lunges.

The station becomes a labyrinth of terror. Every door you slam behind you shudders under the Skinner's weight as it claws and thrashes, peeling back the steel like paper. Its breath rattles through the vents, hot and rancid. You duck into the morgue, but the freezer doors begin to tremble—something inside is pounding to get out. The Skinner's voice slithers through the darkness, warped by its mangled vocal cords.

"Come out, come out... or I'll peel you out."

A hand bursts through a vent, snatching at your ankle. You kick free, but it's only a matter of time.

The power fails. The red emergency glow paints the halls in blood-light. The Skinner is learning—mimicking. It taps on the walls, copying your footsteps, playing with your fear. Then, from right behind you, a wet whisper:

"Found you."

You spin, but it's gone. The intercom sparks to life—Murkoff's cold, clinical voice booms:

"Subject exhibiting optimal fear response. Proceed to final phase."

The Skinner drops from the ceiling, its needle-filled maw stretching wide—

You run. The exit doors loom ahead, but the Skinner erupts from a corpse pile, blocking the way. It lurches forward, jaws unhinging—until gunfire erupts. A masked Reagent tackles it, screaming at you:

"GO!"

The doors seal as the Skinner's shrieks turn to wet, tearing sounds. The screen flashes: TERMINATION PROTOCOL ENGAGED. But as the static clears, you hear it—fingernails on metal. Something is still scratching from the other side.