Alya froze. The sound of that exhale was close—too close. She dared not turn around. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat screaming at her to run, but her legs were locked in place.
The darkness pressed in around her, suffocating. Her flashlight sputtered, then died, plunging the room into pitch black. She fumbled for her phone, desperate for even the faintest glow, but her hands trembled so badly she dropped it. The dull thud of plastic on concrete echoed like a gunshot.
Then came the whisper.
"Alya…"
Her name. Drawn out, soft, as if spoken by someone who had once loved her. She spun, pressing her back to the wall, eyes darting wildly.
No one was there.
The corridor outside was empty. Silent. Yet she knew—she felt—that she wasn't alone. The air was heavy, charged, like the seconds before a thunderstorm. Her breath came shallow, ragged.
She bent to retrieve her phone. Its cracked screen glowed faintly, enough to reveal the words on the wall once more. But they were different now.
"DON'T TURN AROUND."
Her stomach lurched. She whipped her head, but the corridor remained empty. Still, her skin prickled with the sensation of fingers brushing against the back of her neck.
She staggered out of the room, phone clutched like a lifeline, and hurried down the corridor. Her boots struck too loud, each step echoing like she was running through the belly of something alive.
The whispers followed. Not words this time—laughter. Childlike, playful, but distorted, layered with static. It bounced from wall to wall, impossible to pinpoint. Alya pressed her palms to her ears, but it didn't help. The sound wasn't outside—it was inside her head.
Half-blind with panic, she reached the stairwell and descended, nearly stumbling. But when she reached the ground floor, her breath caught.
The factory was different.
The wide open space she had walked through earlier was gone, replaced by narrow corridors that stretched in impossible directions, looping back into themselves. Doors lined the walls, each marked with her name. Some were scratched into the metal, others painted, others carved deep like wounds.
She backed away, shaking her head. "This… this isn't real. It's not real," she whispered, though the quiver in her voice betrayed her disbelief.
Her radio crackled again. She lifted it, hesitating.
"Alya… come home."
It was her mother's voice. Gentle. Familiar.
Her chest tightened. For one desperate second, she almost answered. Almost.
But then the voice changed—stretching, warping into a guttural growl.
"…Come down to us."
The radio slipped from her fingers. The corridors around her seemed to breathe, the walls swelling and contracting as if alive. Her vision blurred, her phone screen flickering in her grip.
Somewhere deep in the factory, a door slammed shut.
And Alya realized with dawning terror: she wasn't trapped in the building.
The building was trapping her.