Part adrenaline.
Part the realization that if someonewerein that room, Hiro wouldn’t hesitate.
Not for a second.
He eased the door open an inch.
Paused.
Listened.
His head tilted just slightly, like he was reading sound waves I couldn’t hear.
I shifted my weight, scanning the hallway again.
The cameras.
The shadows.
The nameplates.
My imagination conjured shapes in every doorway while fear crawled under my ribs.
What if the person who erased the footage was in a secret passageway listening to us?
What if the thump above us wasn’t settling wood?
Hiro lifted his gun higher, muzzle angled toward the dark interior of the room.
Still listening.
Still assessing.
Then he pushed the door open farther, stepping inside first.
Slow.
Careful.
Silent.
His body moved with that eerie fluid efficiency—muscles coiled, breath controlled, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
I stayed at the threshold, hands tight around my phone, heart thumping in my ears.
Hiro disappeared around the corner of the entryway.
My stomach clenched.
Seconds stretched.
Then more.
The room stayed completely quiet, yet the silence had texture—like air wrapped in silk. Every small movement exaggerated itself: the soft shift of my shoes on the rug, the faint pop of wood settling, the hum of electronics behind the walls.
I looked behind me again.
Still nothing.
