As he scrolled, the word "pożreć" began to repeat, breaking the boundaries of the browser window. It crawled onto the plastic casing of the monitor, then onto the desk. Marek tried to push back his chair, but the floor felt soft, like a tongue.

Marek frowned. It wasn't a technical term he recognized. He clicked the link, expecting a system error. Instead, the screen bled into a deep, visceral crimson.

The first article wasn't a document; it was a rhythmic pulse of text that filled the room with the smell of damp earth and rusted iron. It spoke not of buildings, but of the city's foundation—how the concrete was "hungry," how the shadows under the bridges didn't just fall, they reached .

In the dimly lit basement of the Central Archive, Marek stared at the flickering screen of an ancient terminal. He was hunting for a lost architectural file, but the system kept glitching. Suddenly, the search results cleared, replaced by a single, chilling line of text:

The last "related article" was simply a live feed of the room he was sitting in. On the screen, he saw his own back, and behind him, the archive shelves were leaning forward, their wooden slats parting like teeth.

(Related articles: "to devour")