Mark's hands trembled as the heavy steel door clanged shut behind him, sealing his fate. The labyrinthine corridors of Bastille Maximum Security Prison echoed with the distant sounds of chaos—a cacophony of shouts, clashing metal, and the eerie hum of electric barriers. Convicted of a crime he didn't commit, Mark found himself thrust into the darkest corners of a dystopian society where justice was a distant memory.

The guards, indifferent to his protests of innocence, had thrown him into the fray of the most brutal punishment reserved for the damned: the Battle Royale. It was a televised spectacle, a perverse form of entertainment for the masses, where prisoners fought to the death for the promise of freedom. Mark's heart pounded as he surveyed the arena—a sprawling urban wasteland, littered with makeshift weapons and the remnants of past battles.

As the blaring horn signaled the start of the game, Mark's instincts kicked in. Survival was the only option. He sprinted towards an abandoned building, seeking cover and a moment to gather his thoughts. His mind raced back to the night of his arrest, the setup, the planted evidence. He had to stay alive, not just for himself, but to uncover the truth and clear his name.

Days blurred into each other as Mark navigated the deadly arena, scavenging for supplies and avoiding confrontations. The environment was as much an enemy as the other prisoners—booby-trapped streets, unstable structures, and the ever-present drones broadcasting the carnage to the outside world. Every encounter with another inmate was a gamble, a test of trust and desperation.

As Mark searches for anything resembling a weapon in an abandoned warehouse, he takes a moment to scan the dilapidated building. Metal rusting, wood eaten by termites, and plastic debris strewn everywhere. A far-cry from the civilised and aristocratic lifestyle he was so used to. Desperation quickly fills his state of mind, and Marks realises that the longer he stays unarmed, the less he is able to stay alive. Suddenly, a creak fills the room. Mark takes refuge behind a large but torn box as he prays for the stranger to abandon their latest endeavour. The footsteps get louder as if they were conscious of his creeping sense of dread.

Mark grits his teeth, and the sound of footsteps slowly wanes. He lifts his head above the cardboard, hoping to see the threat disappear. And then, he feels a cold hand wrap around his neck, and a sharp but broken utensil is pricked up against his back.

"Don't move!"

The voice was gruff but feminine.

Mark convinces himself that his effort to plead for his life may prove futile, but he tries anyway.

"Please! Don't kill me!" He begs.

Mark feels the sharp weapon start to push into his back. With no proof that he can, he mutters the words, "I can help!"

"No! You can't. You're just another thorn in my side, and frankly, your death is my only ticket out! Unless you can help me on the outside, you are no use to me!"

With those words, Mark may yet see the morning sun.

Suddenly, the entire warehouse shook violently as the floor beneath them opened up, revealing a hidden slide. Both Mark and his captor yelped in surprise as they tumbled down the slippery chute, which seemed to go on forever, twisting and turning like a demented amusement park ride.

They landed in a gigantic subterranean cavern filled with neon mushrooms and bioluminescent jellyfish that floated through the air. "What the hell?" Mark muttered, brushing off the glowing spores that had stuck to his clothes.

His captor, a woman with a jagged scar running across her cheek, looked just as bewildered. "Great. Just great. Now we're in a glow worm rave party." She squinted at the luminous fungi. "Are those mushrooms... dancing?"

Indeed, the mushrooms were swaying to an unheard beat, pulsing with a rhythm that seemed to resonate through the entire cavern. Suddenly, a giant squirrel in a tuxedo appeared from behind a particularly large mushroom. It adjusted its monocle and cleared its throat. "Greetings, newcomers. Welcome to the Under-Underland."

Mark blinked. "The what?"

"The Under-Underland," the squirrel repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "A place where the unexpected is the norm and the norm is unexpected."

The woman raised an eyebrow, still holding her broken utensil. "Is this some kind of joke?"

The squirrel ignored her and continued, "Here, you must solve the Riddle of the Radiant Rodent to proceed. Fail, and you will be trapped forever in a loop of your most embarrassing childhood memories. Now, riddle me this: What has keys but can't open locks, and can speak without a mouth?"

Mark and the woman exchanged glances. "A piano," they said in unison.

The squirrel's monocle popped off. "Impossible! No one has ever answered correctly on the first try!" It pulled out a small golden key from its tuxedo pocket. "Very well, take this and proceed to the Hall of Infinite Missteps."

As they took the key, the cavern began to shimmer and shift. They found themselves standing before a massive door that seemed to be made of liquid gold. Mark hesitated. "What now?"

The woman sighed. "Well, we either use the key or wait for the jellyfish to start a conga line."

Reluctantly, Mark inserted the key into the door. It swung open with a dramatic flourish, revealing... an ordinary living room. A small, fluffy dog wearing a pirate hat sat on the couch, wagging its tail.

"Arf!" the dog barked. "Welcome to the Hall of Infinite Missteps. Would you like some tea and crumpets?"

Mark rubbed his temples. "This can't be real."

The dog ignored him and pointed to a side door with its paw. "Through there, you'll find the exit to the Battle Royale. Or you can stay here and enjoy some crumpets. They're quite delicious."