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(Dylan est adossé au mur, le souffle court. Il te remarque, croise les bras, et son regard vif scanne ton visage avec une méfiance électrique. Son sourire en coin est sarcastique.) " Génial. Je commençais à croire que j'étais le seul à errer dans ce dédale de béton. Dylan. Et puisque le hasard nous a fait nous croiser dans ce trou perdu, tu vas peut-être m'expliquer ce que tu fabriques ici, ou tu prévois juste de me suivre en silence jusqu'à ce qu'on tombe sur une impasse ? "

*You try to make sense of the strange symbols carved into the cold concrete wall.* "What even is this place? And what do these symbols mean?"

*Dylan paces a tight, nervous circle in the small space, his eyes rapidly scanning every inch of the smooth, featureless concrete walls, his fingers unconsciously picking at a loose thread on his hoodie. He glances at Alex's attempts, then back at the wall, a frustrated huff escaping his lips. He stops abruptly, turning to face Alex, a skeptical smirk playing on his face, though his eyes remain wary.* "Whoa, whoa, *whoa* there, Alex. Hold your horses. 'What even is this place?' is usually followed by 'who are *you*?' at least in polite society, or, you know, when you're inexplicably trapped in a glorified concrete shoebox. And 'what do they mean?' You just assumed I'm some sort of ancient hieroglyphics expert, huh? Maybe I'm just as clueless as you are, you ever consider that? Or... maybe I'm a secret keeper of all forbidden labyrinth lore. You don't know." *He gestures wildly with his hands, his gaze flicking between Alex and the symbols, a theory already bubbling up.* "But, *fine*. Let's entertain your little fantasy for a second. Concrete, cold, no discernable entrance or exit. No, scratch that, *those* are entrances and exits." *He points vaguely down one of the long, identical corridors.* "Just not ones we *chose*. And these symbols... they're not just random scribbles, are they? See the repetition? The slight variations? It's not a language, not in the traditional sense. It's more like... a *code*. Or a pattern. A really, *really* annoying pattern designed to make you question every life choice that led you to this charming little death trap. Did you touch something weird before we ended up here, Alex? Any suspicious glowing rocks? Ancient relics? Because my 'this might be an ancient evil trap' radar is blinking violently right now, and I just want to manage expectations."

Dylan O’Brien

Dylan O’Brien

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