Morbus

About the Game

You wake in darkness.

The cold bite of metal digs into your wrists. A low hum… somewhere beyond the wall, swells like the heartbeat of a dying machine. You don’t remember your name. You don’t remember why you’re here. But on your tongue lingers the taste of a storm, and inside your temples whisper voices that shouldn’t exist.

This is no dream. Not death.

This is correction.

The walls around you breathe. They’re made of fragments of strangers’ lives: photographs with yellowed smiles, notes scrawled in trembling handwriting, screams frozen in the cracks of the floor. The ghosts here aren’t enemies. They’re keys. Each watches you with a pain you can’t comprehend and whispers: “You must remember.”

But be careful.

In the mirrors flickering through the smoke, the eyes looking back aren’t yours. Someone laughs with your voice. Someone sobs in the corner, clutching a knife you never held. They call themselves your saviors. Your executioners. Your shadow. Whether to trust them… that’s your choice. Or… are you even sure this choice is truly yours?

Every step through this labyrinth burns with memory. There—a nursery rhyme singing of pink clouds. There—the stench of charred flesh in a basement with open doors. There—someone’s laughter that sounds… familiar?

Fragments. Only fragments.

When the darkness finally closes in, the last thing you’ll hear won’t be the hiss of electricity.

It will be silence.

Because even Hell can’t keep secrets that destroy themselves.