The hallway was a throat of black, industrial velvet. Max ran blindly, her boots skidding on the polished floor, her breath coming in ragged, painful gasps that sounded like tearing paper. Her flashlight—now a failing, sickly ember—coughed in her hand, the beam dying and reviving in erratic, strobe-like pulses.
She wasn't just running from the machines; she was running from the terrifying, gnawing suspicion that she was breaking. What if I'm not being hunted? she thought, the question spiraling in her skull. What if the silence is just silence, and I am the only thing making noise?
She turned the final corner into the East Hallway.
Razor was still there.
He stood in the center of the corridor, a massive silhouette of polished plating and soft, crimson fur. He hadn't moved. He was offline. His crimson optics were dull, lifeless glass. But as Max slowed to a crawl, her heart hammering against her ribs like a bird in a cage, the flashlight flickered again.
Darkness.
The silence was absolute. She could hear the hum of her own blood rushing in her ears.
Flash.
The light caught Razor. He was still standing, his posture leaned forward, that same aggressive, calculating tilt she had seen earlier. But something had changed. The angle of his head—had it been turned that far toward the wall? She couldn't remember. Her mind was a frayed rope, unraveling strand by strand.
Darkness.
She held her breath, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. Focus. Just walk.
Don't look at the eyes.
Flash.
She was closer now. The smell of him hit her—a sharp, sterile scent, like ozone and high-end car wax. He was so clean it was repulsive. In the harsh, sputtering white light of the dying torch, she saw the texture of the fur on his snout. It was combed perfectly flat, a testament to whoever maintained him. She was inches away from his massive, clawed hand.
She froze. The flashlight flickered, sputtering, the beam narrowing down to a pinprick. In that tiny, dying circle of light, she saw a microscopic smudge on his chest plate. A fingerprint.
Someone else had been here. Someone had been touching him.
Panic spiked, cold and sharp. She didn't look up at his face. She didn't want to see if the optics had shifted. She lunged forward, squeezing past the massive, synthetic frame. The fur brushed against her shoulder, and she flinched so hard she nearly collapsed.
She scrambled down the rest of the hallway, her legs feeling like jelly, her mind screaming at her to run, run, run. She reached the Security Office, fumbled with her master key, and shoved it into the lock.
Click. Thud.
She slammed the door, twisting the deadbolt with both hands until it groaned. She didn't stop there. She backed away until she hit the desk, then slumped to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest.
She was locked in. The monitors were humming, casting a pale, rhythmic blue light over the room. She was safe. She was alone.
But as she sat there, listening to the absolute, unnatural quiet of the facility, she looked up at the wall of screens. The East Hallway camera flickered to life, showing the corridor she had just fled.
Razor was still standing in the center of the hallway. But the camera was grainy, and as she squinted at the monitor, her breath caught in her throat.
She didn't scream. She just closed her eyes and gripped her hair, rocking back and forth, praying that when she opened them, she'd be back in her own bed, and this would all be nothing more than a fever dream.