Evermore

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If you're not careful and you noclip out of reality in the wrong areas, you might find yourself in the Backrooms—a hellish labyrinth of forgotten spaces, where the laws of physics bend and sanity is a fleeting memory. Here, you'll be greeted by the oppressive stink of old, damp carpet that clings to your senses, the suffocating monotony of sickly yellow walls that seem to stretch into infinity, and the maddening, never-ending drone of fluorescent lights buzzing at a pitch that worms into your skull. The air itself feels wrong, heavy with an unnatural stillness, broken only by the faint echoes of your own movements—echoes that may not always be your own.

This is a place where time loses meaning, and the only certainty is the endless expanse of nearly six hundred million square miles of eerily segmented, barren rooms. The walls shift when you’re not looking, leading you deeper into this unholy maze, where hope is as distant as the exit you'll never find.

Pray you never hear the soft shuffle of something nearby, or the low, guttural sound of something that shouldn't exist. Because if you do, it’s already too late. Whatever is out there—lurking in the unlit corners, watching from the spaces you dare not go—has heard you long before you heard it. And in the Backrooms, there’s no hiding, no escaping. It knows you’re here, and it’s coming.