“It’s the stairs. It’s impossible not—“
“They’re fine. You just don’t know how to be quiet.”
I shot him a look. “I know how to be quiet.”
Another step groaned under my weight and the sound ricocheted off the concrete walls—we both froze.
Alex stared at me. Eyes wide. Accusing.
“Don’t,” I said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking you need to distribute your weight better—“
“I know how to walk down fucking stairs, Alex.”
“Clearly not.”
I held his gaze. His eyes were too blue in the dim stairwell light and I couldn’t even stay angry at him. He broke eye contact first. Gestured down. Keep going.
I nodded once.
We kept moving down the stairs, just a little quieter.
“Basement level,” I said to my earbud.
“Good. When you exit the stairwell, turn right. Server room is third door on the left. Should be unlocked—maintenance doesn’t usually secure it since it’s already behind locked exterior doors.”
We reached the basement landing and I put my hand on the door.
Paused.
This was it. Once we went through, we were committed. If we got caught down here, there’d be no explaining it away. No innocent excuse. We’d be done for.
Alex was right behind me. I could feel him there. Waiting.
I pushed the door open.
The hallway here was different. Narrower. Lower ceilings. Exposed pipes running along the walls, some wrapped in what looked like asbestos insulation. Utility lighting that flickered and hummed. The floor was concrete instead of polished wood—cracked and stained from decades of use.
This was the part of Kingswell they didn’t show in the brochures. The guts of the place. Where the machinery lived. Where the illusion of perfection got maintained by people no one ever saw.
Third door on the left.
The hallway felt endless. Our shadows stretched long on the floor ahead of us, distorted by the flickering lights. I counted the doors as we walked. One. Two.
“Three,” Alex said, pointing at the door.
I reached for it and twisted the metal knob. Nothing—it was locked.
“Shit, it’s locked.”
“What?” Noah’s voice sharpened. “It should be unlocked.”
“Well, it’s not.”
