The clock chimed, though no one knew the hour. Corridors whispered secrets, passages woven in time, each echo a fragment of forgotten journeys. Shadows danced, flickering against the walls, as if painting stories onto the canvas of night.

She paused, listening for the echo of footsteps not her own. The corridor stretched endlessly, adorned with portraits that watched with eyes of old. Another room awaits, a voice beckoned, though the source was shrouded in mystery.

Light flickered from an unseen source, casting surreal patterns on the floor. The echoes of corridors long left behind, murmuring tales of glory and despair.

She remembered a time when the air was filled with laughter, when corridors were not simply passageways but realms of possibility. Now, silence blanketed her like a shroud, and the portraits' gazes grew heavier, more insistent.

The end is just a beginning, she thought, as she stepped forward. Mystique 7 lay behind her, and ahead, corridors unknown awaited, each turn a promise, each shadow a memory.