They entered like ghosts.
The air inside the facility was damp and stale, filled with the echo of forgotten years. Lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows on peeling walls and rusted steel. Every footstep seemed louder than it should've been, swallowed quickly by the depth of the underground maze.
Zephany tightened her grip on her flashlight. Beside her, Kendrick moved silently, his eyes scanning every corridor, every corner. Sophia followed with her usual quiet efficiency, her tablet flickering as it pinged nearby signals. Reynold, taking the rear, held his weapon close—not because he expected danger, but because he remembered it.
They passed through abandoned operating rooms and specimen storage units, each with broken glass, upturned trays, and decayed biohazard labels. But the silence was what got to Zephany most. It wasn't just the stillness of a place long shut down. It was the heavy quiet of regret, of things done and undone.
