Jiang stepped into the storage room without hesitation.
The space was exactly as he remembered it. Long shelves of sealed crates. Stacked bundles wrapped in oilcloth. The faint scent of dried herbs and treated wood lingering in the air.
Nothing looked disturbed. No overturned boxes, no footprints in the dust. If anything, it looked too clean.
The door remained open behind him.
He took another step in, eyes moving methodically from corner to corner, weapon held low but ready. He listened, really listened, but there was nothing. No breathing. No shift of weight.
Then the door slammed shut.
The sound cracked through the room like a snapped bone. Jiang pivoted on instinct, leaping backward as the gunblade came up in one smooth motion, barrel and blade aligned toward the door. His boots skidded across stone as he landed, knees bent, body coiled.
Nothing stood there. No figure. No movement.
Before he could adjust, the light began to die.
