Nebzy01
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    A massive, decayed underground laboratory stretches endlessly, dimly illuminated by flickering, sickly green fluorescent lights. The air is thick with the stench of antiseptic, rusted metal, and something rotten. The walls are lined with massive glass tanks filled with murky, yellowish liquid, where grotesque, half- formed humanoid figures twitch and convulse, their eyes vacant and mouths frozen in silent screams. Tubes and fleshy organic tendrils snake across the walls, pulsing as if alive, oozing a black, tar- like substance onto the cold, stained concrete floor. Rows of operating tables, covered in dried blood and deep claw marks, sit abandoned, their restraints still fastened as if something had escaped. Surgical tools, rusted and jagged, lay scattered across the surfaces, some still dripping with a thick, viscous red fluid. Faint, distorted whispers echo through the empty corridors, as if the very walls remember the suffering that took place here. At the far end of the hallway, a steel door marked "EXPERIMENTS: DO NOT OPEN" hangs slightly ajar, revealing only darkness beyond. Something wet and heavy drags itself across the floor inside. The ventilation shafts above rattle sporadically, as if something thin and fast were crawling through them, watching, waiting. A flickering security monitor on the wall shows grainy, looping footage of a room you haven't entered yet—except the feed has a two- second delay, and in the corner of the screen, something is standing behind you

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    More prompts from Nebzy01

    A liminal space frozen in the dead of night—a vast, empty supermarket parking lot, dimly illuminated by flickering neon lights. The air is thick with silence, broken only by the distant hum of a buzzing lamp. Rows of abandoned shopping carts stand still, as if waiting for someone who will never return. The asphalt is cracked, damp from a recent rain, reflecting the artificial glow in eerie distortions. At first, it seems like you’re alone. But then… you feel it. In the farthest corner, where the light fails to reach, a silhouette emerges from the shadows. It stands unnaturally still, its form barely distinguishable—except for its eyes. Piercing, glowing in the darkness, locked onto yours. And then comes the smile—a wide, impossible grin stretching beyond human limits, gleaming with something inhuman. You look away for a second. When you look back… it’s closer. No matter where you move, no matter how much distance you put between yourself and the figure, the eyes remain. The grin never fades. It is watching. And it will never stop.
    A liminal space in Iwagakure, the Hidden Stone Village, exactly as seen in Naruto. Massive rock formations rise around the village, their jagged edges worn smooth by time. The buildings, carved directly into the stone, blend seamlessly with the cliffs, their earthy tones merging with the landscape. The Tsuchikage’s tower, a monolithic structure of solid rock, stands in the center, dominating the skyline. The village is completely empty—no shinobi, no movement, only the distant sound of wind brushing against the stone. The narrow streets, usually bustling with activity, are eerily silent. The stone bridges stretch across deep ravines, leading to doorways that open into darkness. The weight of the surrounding mountains feels oppressive, making the village seem trapped in stillness, frozen in time. Iwagakure stands strong, unchanged, yet abandoned, as if waiting for life to return.
    A liminal space inside Peach’s Castle from Super Mario 64. The grand hall is vast and empty, the walls adorned with faded tapestries and statues that seem to stare blankly into space. The floors are cold, the sound of footsteps echoing unnervingly through the stillness. The once vibrant and lively space feels abandoned, with no people, no sounds, and only the weight of silence hanging in the air. The grand staircase leads up into darkness, and the sense of solitude is overwhelming, as if time has stopped and the castle itself is forgotten.
    An abandoned cemetery, swallowed by an endless night. Cracked tombstones rise from damp earth, their inscriptions faded and forgotten. The air is thick with mist, muffling every sound. The dim moonlight barely cuts through the darkness. Something is here. Something is watching. Behind a twisted, gnarled tree, just at the edge of your vision, a faceless humanoid figure lurks. Its body is unnaturally long, its arms hanging low, almost dragging across the ground. It has no eyes, no mouth—and yet, you can feel it staring. No matter how far you walk, it is always there. Never fully visible, but never truly gone. Hiding just enough to remain unseen, yet close enough to feel its presence press against your skin. You can keep moving. But you will never be alone.
    A liminal space within the Shadow Temple from The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time—a place where darkness is not just an absence of light, but a presence of its own. The stone corridors stretch endlessly, their surfaces cracked and aged, barely illuminated by flickering torches that cast long, shifting shadows. The air is heavy, damp, and filled with the faint scent of decay, as if the temple itself is rotting in silence. An eerie mist clings to the floor, moving unnaturally, as if drawn toward something unseen. The walls whisper—faint, distant sounds that might be echoes, or something else entirely. Ancient carvings, their meanings long forgotten, seem to change when looked at for too long. Endless staircases descend into darkness, their depths unfathomable, while narrow bridges stretch over voids that should not exist. The temple is empty—yet the overwhelming feeling of being watched, followed, hunted is impossible to ignore. The further one ventures, the less real the world outside feels. The Shadow Temple is not just a place, but a void, a boundary between the living and the lost—a forgotten nightmare, waiting for those who dare to enter.
    A liminal space within Orgrimmar from World of Warcraft. The grand gates of the city stand open, but the usual bustle of life is eerily absent. The towering stone walls loom high above, casting long, unnatural shadows over the empty streets. The iconic torches lining the roads flicker, but no sounds of movement or conversation echo through the once lively market. The buildings, made of dark stone and rough wood, seem to close in on the empty pathways, their windows dark, their doorways abandoned. The air feels thick and still, as if the entire city is holding its breath, suspended in time. The wind stirs the banners but does little else, leaving the city feeling unnaturally quiet. The usually vibrant and chaotic heart of the Horde is now a ghost town, isolated and forgotten, creating a deep sense of solitude as you wander through its desolate streets.
    A liminal space within the Great Deku Tree from The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time—a hollow, ancient being frozen in time. The vast wooden chamber stretches endlessly upward, its twisted roots forming an intricate web of passageways and platforms. The air is heavy with the scent of damp moss and aged bark, as if the tree itself is breathing in slow, silent intervals. Faint golden light filters through cracks in the wood, casting long, wavering shadows. Floating dust particles dance in the still air, their movement unsettlingly slow. The corridors formed by the tree’s interior twist and spiral unnaturally, leading into deeper, darker hollows. A soft, eerie hum resonates through the empty space, neither natural nor mechanical. The atmosphere is neither welcoming nor hostile—just endlessly quiet, as if something was once here but has long since faded away. Though the tree is hollow, the feeling of being watched lingers, its presence unseen yet undeniable. The Arbre Mojo is alive, but no longer awake—a forgotten sanctuary, lost between worlds.
    A liminal space within Orgrimmar from World of Warcraft. The grand gates of the city stand open, but the usual bustle of life is eerily absent. The towering stone walls loom high above, casting long, unnatural shadows over the empty streets. The iconic torches lining the roads flicker, but no sounds of movement or conversation echo through the once lively market. The buildings, made of dark stone and rough wood, seem to close in on the empty pathways, their windows dark, their doorways abandoned. The air feels thick and still, as if the entire city is holding its breath, suspended in time. The wind stirs the banners but does little else, leaving the city feeling unnaturally quiet. The usually vibrant and chaotic heart of the Horde is now a ghost town, isolated and forgotten, creating a deep sense of solitude as you wander through its desolate streets.
    A liminal space in Sunagakure, the Hidden Sand Village, exactly as seen in Naruto. Endless dunes stretch beyond the village walls, their golden grains shifting subtly in the dry wind. The clay and sandstone buildings, shaped by time and erosion, stand tall against the arid landscape. The Kazekage’s dome-shaped tower rises in the distance, its curved architecture blending seamlessly with the desert environment. The village is completely empty—no shinobi, no traders, no sound except for the occasional gust of wind stirring the sand. The wooden walkways and bridges remain untouched, their planks sun-bleached and weathered. The heat distorts the horizon, making the streets feel strangely endless, as if the village could stretch on forever. Sunagakure feels suspended in time, a place of stillness and solitude, waiting beneath the relentless sun.
    A liminal space within the Fire Temple from The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time—a vast, ancient structure buried deep within the earth, where heat distorts the air and time feels like it has melted away. The towering stone walls are cracked and scorched, glowing faintly with an ember-red hue. Fissures in the ground pulse with molten lava, casting flickering shadows that seem to move on their own. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the low, distant rumble of shifting rock and the occasional hiss of steam escaping unseen vents. Stone bridges stretch across vast pits of fire, suspended over an abyss that feels endless. The corridors, lined with intricate but worn-down carvings, spiral into darkness, their paths unclear—almost as if the temple itself is shifting, alive in its slumber. Despite the suffocating heat, the air feels eerily still, untouched by wind or movement. The temple is empty, yet the sensation of being observed lingers, as if something ancient is buried within its depths, waiting. The Fire Temple exists in a space outside of time—a forgotten furnace, still burning, long after its purpose has been lost.
    An abandoned cemetery, swallowed by an endless night. Cracked tombstones rise from damp earth, their inscriptions faded and forgotten. The air is thick with mist, muffling every sound. The dim moonlight barely cuts through the darkness. Something is here. Something is watching. Behind a twisted, gnarled tree, just at the edge of your vision, a faceless humanoid figure lurks. Its body is unnaturally long, its arms hanging low, almost dragging across the ground. It has no eyes, no mouth—and yet, you can feel it staring. No matter how far you walk, it is always there. Never fully visible, but never truly gone. Hiding just enough to remain unseen, yet close enough to feel its presence press against your skin. You can keep moving. But you will never be alone.
    A dimly lit supermarket parking lot at night, silent and empty. The flickering neon lights cast long, distorted shadows on the cracked asphalt. In the farthest corner, a figure stands in the darkness. It is tall, unnaturally thin, its elongated limbs barely distinguishable from the shadows. Its glowing white eyes pierce through the dark, locked onto you. A wide, jagged grin stretches across its face, too large, too sharp—unnatural. It doesn’t move. Yet every time you blink, it feels closer. It is watching. It is waiting. And no matter where you go, it will always be there.
    A deserted cemetery at night, shrouded in dense fog. The crooked tombstones are half-buried in the overgrown grass, and the cold wind carries a faint whisper, though no one is there. A dim streetlamp flickers in the distance, its light failing to reach the deeper parts of the graveyard. In the blackest corner between the graves, something watches. At first, it's just a void—a patch of darkness deeper than the night itself. But then, two pale, sunken eyes emerge from the shadows, lifeless yet locked onto yours. Below them, the faint outline of a mouth appears—not a grin, not human, but stretched unnaturally, as if the skin barely clings to something skeletal beneath. It does not move. It does not breathe. Yet you feel it. Staring. Waiting. And in the silence, you realize—it sees you, even when you can’t see it.
    A liminal space within the Belly of Jabu-Jabu from The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time—a vast, organic cavern suspended between the living and the inanimate. The fleshy walls pulse faintly, their slick, wet surfaces illuminated by an eerie bioluminescent glow. The air is thick and humid, filled with the distant, rhythmic sound of something deep within, breathing. A translucent, membranous floor stretches ahead, shifting slightly underfoot, as if the temple itself is aware of your presence. Veins of glowing blue and red branch across the walls, pulsating in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. The corridors curve unnaturally, leading into deeper chambers where echoes distort, making it unclear if the sound is coming from ahead or behind. A strange silence lingers, not of emptiness, but of something waiting. Though no creatures stir, the feeling of being inside something vast and alive is undeniable. The space feels endless yet claustrophobic, an otherworldly sanctuary neither hostile nor safe. Here, in this forgotten, organic labyrinth, time and reality feel distant—as if swallowed by something greater than oneself.
    A liminal space within the Belly of Jabu-Jabu from The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time—a vast, organic cavern suspended between the living and the inanimate. The fleshy walls pulse faintly, their slick, wet surfaces illuminated by an eerie bioluminescent glow. The air is thick and humid, filled with the distant, rhythmic sound of something deep within, breathing. A translucent, membranous floor stretches ahead, shifting slightly underfoot, as if the temple itself is aware of your presence. Veins of glowing blue and red branch across the walls, pulsating in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. The corridors curve unnaturally, leading into deeper chambers where echoes distort, making it unclear if the sound is coming from ahead or behind. A strange silence lingers, not of emptiness, but of something waiting. Though no creatures stir, the feeling of being inside something vast and alive is undeniable. The space feels endless yet claustrophobic, an otherworldly sanctuary neither hostile nor safe. Here, in this forgotten, organic labyrinth, time and reality feel distant—as if swallowed by something greater than oneself.
    A liminal space in Kumogakure, the Hidden Cloud Village, exactly as seen in Naruto. Towering mountains surround the village, their peaks disappearing into a thick layer of clouds. The traditional yet imposing buildings, constructed from stone and reinforced wood, cling to the cliffsides, connected by narrow bridges and winding paths. The Raikage’s tower, a massive structure of dark stone, stands at the village’s center, overlooking the empty streets below. The village is completely deserted—no shinobi, no movement, only the distant sound of the wind howling through the mountain passes. The sky is a deep gray, filled with heavy clouds that seem to press down on the landscape. Occasionally, a faint crackle of lightning illuminates the misty peaks, casting brief shadows over the quiet village. The usual energy of Kumo is gone, replaced by a profound sense of stillness. The village feels suspended in time, as if the world has momentarily paused, leaving only the towering cliffs and endless sky.
    A liminal space frozen in the dead of night—a vast, empty supermarket parking lot, dimly illuminated by flickering neon lights. The air is thick with silence, broken only by the distant hum of a buzzing lamp. Rows of abandoned shopping carts stand still, as if waiting for someone who will never return. The asphalt is cracked, damp from a recent rain, reflecting the artificial glow in eerie distortions. At first, it seems like you’re alone. But then… you feel it. In the farthest corner, where the light fails to reach, a silhouette emerges from the shadows. It stands unnaturally still, its form barely distinguishable—except for its eyes. Piercing, glowing in the darkness, locked onto yours. And then comes the smile—a wide, impossible grin stretching beyond human limits, gleaming with something inhuman. You look away for a second. When you look back… it’s closer. No matter where you move, no matter how much distance you put between yourself and the figure, the eyes remain. The grin never fades. It is watching. And it will never stop.
    A liminal space within the Shadow Temple from The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time—a place where darkness is not just an absence of light, but a presence of its own. The stone corridors stretch endlessly, their surfaces cracked and aged, barely illuminated by flickering torches that cast long, shifting shadows. The air is heavy, damp, and filled with the faint scent of decay, as if the temple itself is rotting in silence. An eerie mist clings to the floor, moving unnaturally, as if drawn toward something unseen. The walls whisper—faint, distant sounds that might be echoes, or something else entirely. Ancient carvings, their meanings long forgotten, seem to change when looked at for too long. Endless staircases descend into darkness, their depths unfathomable, while narrow bridges stretch over voids that should not exist. The temple is empty—yet the overwhelming feeling of being watched, followed, hunted is impossible to ignore. The further one ventures, the less real the world outside feels. The Shadow Temple is not just a place, but a void, a boundary between the living and the lost—a forgotten nightmare, waiting for those who dare to enter.
    A liminal space within Orgrimmar from World of Warcraft. The grand gates of the city stand open, but the usual bustle of life is eerily absent. The towering stone walls loom high above, casting long, unnatural shadows over the empty streets. The iconic torches lining the roads flicker, but no sounds of movement or conversation echo through the once lively market. The buildings, made of dark stone and rough wood, seem to close in on the empty pathways, their windows dark, their doorways abandoned. The air feels thick and still, as if the entire city is holding its breath, suspended in time. The wind stirs the banners but does little else, leaving the city feeling unnaturally quiet. The usually vibrant and chaotic heart of the Horde is now a ghost town, isolated and forgotten, creating a deep sense of solitude as you wander through its desolate streets.
    A liminal space in Sunagakure, the Hidden Sand Village, exactly as seen in Naruto. Endless dunes stretch beyond the village walls, their golden grains shifting subtly in the dry wind. The clay and sandstone buildings, shaped by time and erosion, stand tall against the arid landscape. The Kazekage’s dome-shaped tower rises in the distance, its curved architecture blending seamlessly with the desert environment. The village is completely empty—no shinobi, no traders, no sound except for the occasional gust of wind stirring the sand. The wooden walkways and bridges remain untouched, their planks sun-bleached and weathered. The heat distorts the horizon, making the streets feel strangely endless, as if the village could stretch on forever. Sunagakure feels suspended in time, a place of stillness and solitude, waiting beneath the relentless sun.
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