王磊把头从木箱里拔出来，шторм chests heaving, trying to suck in some decent air. The rough linen of his clothes burned into his skin, and his head throbbed from the stuffy, decaying air inside the box. He spat out a mouthful of stale breath, the coppery tang coating his tongue. Outside, the jungle floor was littered with broken furniture and shattered porcelain, the remnants of a family torn apart in a horrifying way he didn't want to dwell on.

He stumbled out of the ruin, the humid air stinging his eyes as he blinked against the sudden brightness. The Mausoleum was gutted, a chaotic mess of destruction. Debris was everywhere, like someone had taken a sledgehammer to a Christmas tree made of antiques.

"John!" he yelled, his voice hoarse. "John, where are you?"

The sounds of digging and shouting drifted from deeper within the structure. Worry tightened his chest. John, the - was he still inside? He risked a glance back at the gaping hole where the entrance used to be, but there was nothing but jagged rock and the oppressive darkness beyond.