The black stain is growing.
At first, it had merely slipped your notice. Small, black speckles, perhaps the consequence of showers left running too long, bodies packed together in the heat.
But you can hear it now.
The mold doesn't just sit, it hungers, consumes.
Dark, necrotic veins crawl over the ceilings when you turn your back.
You look for a place to fight back, a way to scrub the grime, but the stain and the architecture have become one.
The acrid stench creeps down your nose and seethes in the back of your throat.
You breathe in and find yourself choking.
The fear sinks in. Thoughts cross your mind of escape.
You are too late.