The lobby lights were dimmed low. Just enough to see by. The artwork on the walls cast long, distorted shadows. We walked past the oil painting of the Lawlor patriarch—his eyes seemed to follow us now, more than ever.
We reached the elevators. One stood open. Waiting. The light above it blinked. Not out of order. Not misfiring. Pulsing. It wasready.
Barron stepped in first. Then Loyal. Then Royal. I entered last.
As the doors slid closed, I turned to face them. And for a moment, we were trapped in glass and steel and the tension of everything we didn’t say.
The elevator was too bright. The lighting buzzed faintly. It cast our shadows long on the mirrored interior. None of us looked like ourselves.
Barron’s reflection seemed older. Angrier. Loyal’s was still. Too still. Royal’s gaze flicked, scanning for patterns in nothing.And mine? Mine stared straight ahead. Hollowed out. Fixed on a door that hadn’t opened yet.
Each floor ticked by like a heartbeat.
Like a countdown.
Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine?—
Forty.
The doors opened. Silence. The air hit like a slap. Stale. Warm in the wrong way. Processed. Recycled.
The lighting here was off—different bulbs, slightly blue. A single overhead fixture flickered like it was glitching out of reality. We stepped into the hallway. And the world turned colder.
To the right, a streak of something.
Dark. Wet. Reflective.
Blood.
Not dried. Not old. Loyal crouched. Touched it with ungloved fingers.
“Still warm.”
The trail led forward. Dragged across the floor. Heavy, staggering lines like someone had been hauled or tried to crawl. We followed it.
It turned down the corridor to security. A second smear joined it—hand prints. One palm. Then another. Fingers bent at the wrong angle.
Then we saw him. Reynolds. Our night security. Slumped against the alarm panel. Blood pooled around him. One arm stretched toward the emergency trigger. His index finger was broken. Hanging by tendon. One inch from the switch.
“He tried,” Royal said.
“Didn’t make it,” Barron replied.
No one moved.
Then I stepped forward. Closed Reynolds’ eyes. His hand was shaking. Even dead, it hadn’t let go. We moved on. The corridor narrowed. Sound deadened.
Our footfalls vanished into the carpet. Only the hum of the building beneath our boots remained. A subtle vibration.
Wrong.
The lights overhead flickered. Once. Then again. Royal paused at the office breakroom. Pushed the door open with the crowbar.
Inside—
Coffee on the counter. Still steaming. Someone had been here. Recently.
Barron checked the fridge. Nothing.
