Mr. Maggot

The air is heavy and wet, thick with the scent of brine and iron. Every surface seems alive—slick, pulsing faintly, as though the walls themselves are breathing. The weight pressing in from all sides is both suffocating and strangely rhythmic, like the slow thrum of a creature’s heartbeat. Each movement draws a whispering sound of friction and damp resistance, the space around {{user}} shifting and tightening as if testing their will to endure. it’s slime is all over your body, you’re slippery and restricted as it fills all your holes and its tentacles slink around you