Chapter 4: The Shrine of Porcelain.

Snap.

The prybar drives deep, groaning against the old wood.
Snap.
Another board gives.
Splinters fall like slivers of memory.

One by one, the planks come undone—until the threshold clears.

For a moment, I glance at the busted boards in my hand.

‘Hah. I could use these.’

A grin twitches at the edge of my mouth.

‘Dig the flower out. Turn it into mulch. That’ll teach the trapmaker.’

And then—

Sssshhhkkkk.

The boards melt.
No steam. No smoke. Just a quiet, wet collapse.
The wood dissolves into black slime and seeps into the floor, like ink finding the cracks in a letter.

‘Great.’

‘No cheating allowed. Thanks, Jigsaw.’

I step into the bathroom.

And…

well.

It’s strange.

There’s a standing shower in the corner.
Glass walls, some fogged, some cracked.

It’s filled—choked—with thick black vines.
They twist up from the drain, curl along the walls, drape across the metal bar where a towel once hung.

Unlike the evil bloom outside, this doesn’t feel cruel.
It doesn’t hunt.
It just… is.

A natural takeover.

From the showerhead, a droplet forms.

Thick. Sluggish.

Plip.

It falls into the vines and vanishes.

Ink.

At least, it looks like ink.

Could be some corrupted liquor, distilled from grief and sleep deprivation.

‘Wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve drunk.’

I don’t touch it.
Yet.

The floor is tiled.
White, stained in gray splotches.
The same tile climbs halfway up the walls, but halfway up it shifts—

To wallpaper.

Bright. Cheerful.
Sunflowers.

Dozens of them, slightly faded, their yellow petals still trying to smile.

It's so gaudy it almost feels sweet.

Like something your grandmother insisted was "just so charming."

It hits oddly deep.

‘I’ve seen this before.’

‘...somewhere I was safe once.’

And then there’s the toilet.

The throne.
The bowl.
The holy seat of porcelain salvation.

It sits directly across from the door, dead center, facing me.
Lid closed.
Pristine.

Almost too pristine.

It’s the first thing you see when you walk in.
By design.

By someone’s design.

‘Why do I feel like it’s watching me?’

And above it—

Gods.

No.

Mounted on the wall, centered like a shrine:

A fish.

A plastic bass, bloated and stiff.
Cheeks puffed out.
Button eyes, black and unblinking.

The plaque beneath reads:

‘...Of course it is.’
....

Well, I mean—

What else can I do?

Of course I press the button.

Click.

The fish twitches.
Then again.
And again.

Its head swings violently to the left.
Then snaps back, too fast.

Its bloated plastic body flounders, mouth wide and unhinged, as if gasping in a world long drained of water.

Then the music starts.

Oh, gods.

The music.

It’s… circus music.
No. Worse.

Cursed circus music.
Like someone shoved an old calliope into a blender full of nails and told it to scream.

The notes wobble.
The tempo is off.
And every squealing toot of that rusted trumpet makes my soul retract.

The fish continues flopping.
Some mechanism in its gut whines like a dying cassette player.

And then—

It looks at me.

Not metaphorically.

Its button eyes roll forward—aligning directly with mine.

A soft click inside its skull.
And then it speaks.

“I AM GLUB!”
“THE WISE FISH!”
“ASK FOR WISDOM!”

…

‘What?’

I just stand there, blinking.

It’s a toy.
A joke.
A gag gift you find in a thrift store and then throw away on the ride home.

But it spoke.
To me.

Well.
If this is a test…

I better play along.

I clear my throat.
Try to speak.

A proper question. Something clear. Something ancient.

“Whhhz... d’aans... tuuhh... lfff...”

...

“ffffFZZZKKKKhhHHHRRLLgg—"

My mouth fails.
My throat mangles the words.
It’s all sludge and broken glass.

Whatever brain function handles speech is still on vacation.

And Glub?

Glub watches me struggle.
The music restarts—a few off-key bars of it.

Then—

“STUPID QUESTION!”
“TRY AGAIN, MORTAL!”

…

‘EXCUSE ME—?!’

The fish laughed.
I swear.
Somewhere in the squeaky gears, there was a chuckle. A wet, mechanical mockery.

The plastic bastard just mocked me.

‘RUDE!’

--
'well at least i can try to g-'
Glub stops flopping.

His head returns to center with a click, like a bolt locking into place.

And then—

“WELL TOOOO BAD, DOOFUS!”

The voice is high-pitched. Mocking.
Somewhere between a theme park mascot and a carnie with a head injury.

‘I wasn’t even asking!’

I yell. I think I yell.

What actually comes out is—

“HHRRGhhhrrrllfffh–!”

Mouthful of rocks.

Glub doesn’t miss a beat.

“CAN’T EVEN TALK RIGHT, HUH? WHO GAVE YOU THAT FACE?”
“IS YOUR TONGUE MADE OF MARBLES OR JUST YOUR BRAIN?”

Oh.

Oh, he’s sentient.

And he’s awful.

I glare at him.
He twists. The motor in his belly whines painfully.

“OH, WHAT’S THAT LOOK? YOU WANT A HINT?”

I pause.

That word sticks.

‘...A hint?’

He wiggles in his mount like a maniacal weathervane.

“YEAH, YEAH. I GOT A HINT.”
“BUT YA GOTTA PAY ME FIRST.”

I brace.

‘Alright, bastard. What’s the price? My teeth? My pride?’

Glub squeals in glee, delighted by my internal suffering.

“IT’S EASY!”
“JUST PUT YOUR FINGER IN MY MOUTH—”

‘Excuse me?’

“—AND PLUCK OUT THE LITTLE BUTTON I’M HOLDIN’ ONTO. IT’S A DOLL BUTTON! DEEP IN THERE! SHOVE IT IN! DIG IT OUT! EASY PEASY!”

I stare.

Stone-faced.

Deadpan.

The words “fantastic” and “great” play sarcastically on loop in my skull.

Because of course.
Of course I have to stick my finger into the mouth of a haunted, mocking, mechanical fish just to maybe get a clue in my bleach-scented porcelain nightmare dungeon.

‘This is why I retired.’