Chapter 1: Rule One: Do Not Enter

The low hum of the airport was a sound Liam Carter had always associated with a dull, creeping anxiety. It was the sound of limbo, of being between places. Gate 12 was no different—a sterile purgatory of blue seats, flickering departure boards, and the distant, muffled announcements that blurred into white noise. He clutched his phone, rereading the last text from his sister for the tenth time. Mom’s stable, but you should hurry.

The words did nothing to soothe the knot in his stomach. He was an architecture student, trained to see the world in lines, angles, and logical systems. But there was no logic to a sudden aneurysm, no blueprint for the fear that was coiling in his gut. His connecting flight to Chicago was delayed. Again.

He shifted in the uncomfortable seat, the fabric of his gray hoodie bunching up behind him. A glance around the waiting area showed the usual cast of characters: a businessman typing furiously on a laptop, a family trying to corral a hyperactive toddler, a young couple whispering to each other, their heads close together. Mundane. Normal.

Then the world ended.

Not with a bang, but with a sudden, absolute cut. The lights, the departure boards, the charging stations—everything winked out at once. The low hum of the terminal vanished, replaced by a silence so profound it felt like a physical pressure against his eardrums. For a single, suspended moment, no one moved. No one spoke. The darkness was total, a thick, velvety black that swallowed everything.

A collective gasp rippled through the passengers. A baby started to cry. Liam’s own heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the oppressive quiet. His first thought was a power failure, a simple blackout. But the silence… it was wrong. All the ambient noise of a major airport—the distant roar of jets, the rolling of suitcases, the air conditioning—it was all gone.

Then, with a series of loud, metallic clunks, the emergency lights flickered on. They cast a sickly, orange-green glow over the terminal, painting everything in long, distorted shadows that writhed and danced. The faces of the other passengers were pale, their eyes wide with confusion and fear.

Liam’s bladder, already protesting from two cups of lukewarm coffee, chose that moment to scream for attention. It was a stupid, mundane problem in the face of… whatever this was. But the pressure was becoming painful. He scanned the terminal. The restroom sign, a generic blue and white symbol of a man and a woman, was faintly visible down the concourse, its silhouette stark against the emergency lighting.

Just go. It's a blackout. It'll be over in a minute.

He stood up, his legs feeling unsteady. The walk to the restroom felt longer than it should have, each step echoing slightly in the unnatural quiet. He passed the other passengers, their faces frozen in expressions of uncertainty. The businessman had stopped typing. The family had hushed their toddler. They all just… watched. Their stillness was unnerving.

He pushed open the heavy door to the men's restroom. The emergency light inside was weaker, casting the row of sinks and stall doors in deep shadow. A single faucet dripped, the sound amplified to a cannon shot in the silence. The air was cold, stale.

He chose a stall at the far end, fumbling with the lock. The click of the bolt sliding home was a small comfort. As he stood there, a strange sound reached him from outside the stall. A soft, wet, dragging noise. It was followed by a low, guttural click, like someone cracking their neck, but deeper, more resonant.

"Hello?" Liam called out, his voice sounding thin and reedy. "Is someone there?"

The only answer was the steady plink… plink… plink of the dripping faucet.

He told himself it was just another passenger, equally spooked by the blackout. He finished quickly, his hands shaking slightly. As he reached for the lock, the dragging sound started again, closer this time. Right outside his stall door. A dark shape blotted out the thin line of light at the bottom.

Ice flooded his veins. This wasn't right.

"Hey," he said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. "Everything okay out there?"

Silence. Then, a soft, deliberate tap… tap… tap on the stall door.

Panic seized him. He backed away, pressing himself against the cold tile of the back wall. His architectural mind, the part of him that saw structures and stress points, screamed that the flimsy stall lock was nothing. The tapping stopped. A low, wet chuckle slithered through the air, seeming to come from all directions at once.

The stall door didn't open. It buckled. A dark, jagged fissure tore through the metal as if it were paper, splintering inwards. Something thin and black, like a shard of obsidian, sliced through the opening. Liam didn't even have time to scream. He threw his left hand up instinctively to shield his face.

Agony, white-hot and absolute, erupted from his hand. It felt like it had been thrust into a furnace filled with broken glass. A choked cry tore from his throat as he stumbled back, his eyes squeezed shut against the searing pain. He heard a sickening crunch, the sound of his own bones grinding together.

Driven by pure, primal terror, he kicked out blindly at the mangled door. It flew open, revealing nothing but empty space. The restroom was vacant. The dripping faucet, the eerie light, the row of sinks—it was all just as it had been. There was no one there.

He scrambled out, cradling his ruined hand to his chest. It was a mess of blood and twisted flesh. Shards of bone poked through the skin, and two of his fingers were bent at an impossible angle. The pain was a living thing, clawing its way up his arm. He stumbled to the sinks, fumbling with the tap, but only a trickle of cold, rusty water sputtered out.

He had to get out. He had to find help.

He burst back into the terminal, his breath coming in ragged, painful sobs. "Help!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "Someone, please help me! I'm hurt!"

No one answered. No one moved.

He staggered to a stop, the scene before him freezing the blood in his veins more effectively than any shadowy attacker. The people were all still there. The businessman, the family, the young couple. But they weren't people anymore.

Every single one of them was standing now, facing him. And they were all smiling.

It wasn't a normal smile. It was a grotesque, impossible distortion. Their mouths were stretched taut, pulled back from their teeth in a silent rictus of glee that reached their ears. Their eyes, wide and glassy, were completely vacant. And as one, in a slow, synchronized, metronome-like rhythm, their heads tilted from side to side. Left. Right. Left. Right.

The Grinners. The name appeared in his mind, unbidden and absolute.

They weren't looking at him. They were just… smiling. Tilting. The sight was so fundamentally wrong, so alien, that Liam’s brain struggled to process it. He backed away slowly, his mangled hand throbbing in time with the silent, rhythmic sway of the grinning crowd.

His phone, forgotten in his pocket, buzzed.

With his one good hand, he fumbled it out. The screen glowed with a single, unread notification from an unknown source. It wasn't a text message. It wasn't an email. It was just… there.

He tapped it open. A plain white screen appeared, with simple black text.

AIRPORT SURVIVAL GUIDELINES

Rule 1: Do not enter any restroom, staff room, or janitorial closet. They are no longer empty.

Liam’s breath hitched. His eyes darted from the screen to his mangled, bleeding hand, then back. The first rule. The one he had already broken.

He scrolled down, his thumb smearing blood on the screen.

Rule 2: Do not make eye contact with The Grinners. Do not speak to them. Their smiles are a trap.

Rule 3: All gates now lead to Chicago. Do not, under any circumstances, go to Chicago.

Rule 4: You can close your eyes, but not for more than five seconds.

Rule 5: If you see a small boy crying, run.

Rule 6: Do not trust the airline staff. Their faces are wrong.

Rule 7: Your phone is your only guide. Protect it. Its battery is your lifeline.

He looked up from the glowing screen. The terminal stretched out before him, a sterile, shadow-drenched prison filled with silent, smiling monsters. The pain in his hand was a searing reminder of his failure. The rules on his phone were a terrifying confirmation that this was no nightmare. This was real. And he was trapped.