Work Header

Bastard's Box

Work Text:

Gold. Just bright enough to give some light to the tight tunnels. Enough to see his hand in front of his fucking face. But nothing beyond that. 

Another crossroad, but the stupid darkness hid any dangers. Like there would be a path without any danger. He turned right anyways because he always did.

A weak chuckle, barely coherent, escaped. Maybe he did deserve this. Trapped in an unending maze. Only to be pulled out to die again. And again. And see himself die. Again. And again.

The smell of sulphur grew. That bastard was nearby. How long had it been?