Psychoactive. The word was scratched into the wall of an old, abandoned bunker. The letters were jagged, as if carved with bare nails, and beneath them was a shattered mirror, its shards reflecting a strange dance of light from broken neon tubes. As I stepped closer, the air shifted—thick, sweet, and oddly pulsating, as if something was watching me from the spaces between my own thoughts. Suddenly, reality began to vibrate, stretching, colors fracturing into countless shades. This wasn’t a hallucination; it was a passage. Psychoactive. I knew there was no turning back.
