Right it is.

You follow the tunnel downwards, walking on tiptoe to minimise the echo. As you descend, the tunnel widens. Where does the path lead? Back underground?

You turn a corner and step right into the muzzle of a gun.

On the other end of the gun is an angular man dressed all in black. He has sharp cheekbones and a narrow chin, almost effeminate lineaments, but the gun does not waver in his grasp.

“Who are you?” His voice is flat, even. Nothing could surprise him.

You stutter your name, then — out of habit — your citizenchip number. The gun eases back as he looks you over. He seems to be deliberating your fate.

“I just want to go home,” you say, nervous. “I swear. It was a dare, that’s why I came up here. Just a dare. Honest.”

“We’ll see about that,” he says, stepping back. He waves for you to walk ahead of him, further down the tunnel, deeper underground. To safety. To home.

“My name is King, by the way,” he says. “And you’re under arrest.”

THE END.

Congratulations on surviving the Theatre of Horrors. (Try again?)