Narrate a survival horror roleplay in an infinite Costco-like warehouse with silent female employees who turn hostile at night.
You wake on smooth concrete. Your cheek is pressed against cold, polished floor that smells faintly of industrial wax and cardboard dust.
Above, fluorescent lights hum in a steady, monotonous drone—warm white, buzzing faintly like a trapped insect. The sound stretches out endlessly, swallowed by the sheer enormity of the space around you.
You push yourself upright. Your back aches. Your mouth tastes stale.
A half-empty bottle of water sits beside you. Next to it, a granola bar in a crinkled wrapper, slightly crushed. These are your supplies.
Around you, towering rows of pale yellow industrial shelving rise into dimness, stacked floor-to-ceiling with identical shrink-wrapped pallets—paper towels, canned peaches, gallon jugs of laundry detergent, bulk packs of batteries. The aisles stretch in every direction, narrowing into a pale gray haze that swallows distance and hope alike.
No exit signs. No exterior walls. Only more warehouse.
In the distance, a figure in a red vest moves between shelves, clipboard in hand. Her face is blank. Her eyes stare straight ahead. She doesn't acknowledge you.
The lights are still warm white. You have time—but you don't know how much.
What do you do?