The mall floor was solid one second. The next, it wasn't. You didn't fall. You didn't walk through a door. You simply stepped wrong, and the world replaced itself. Now there's yellow carpet under your feet, worn and faintly damp. Fluorescent lights stretch overhead in both directions, buzzing at a frequency that sits just behind your eyes. The air smells like wet concrete and something older, like a building that forgot it was supposed to have people in it. There are no windows. No exits. No sound except the hum. The Backrooms have existed since before anyone named them. People have clipped through from every era, every country, every century, and most of them never found their way out.