The corridor stretched ahead like a frozen breath: cold, still, waiting.
Ash didn't move at first. He listened — really listened — the way someone does when they've survived danger before and know the difference between imagination and threat.
Palo stayed close behind him, trying to slow his breathing. But his heartbeat was loud in his ears, like it wanted to betray him.
The lights above flickered again.
Just once.
Then a faint sound drifted through the far end of the archives.
A metallic click.
Then another.
Palo's voice came out in barely a whisper. "Is that… footsteps?"
Ash shook his head slowly. "Not footsteps. Filing cabinets."
Palo blinked. "Someone's opening them?"
Ash didn't answer. He stepped forward cautiously, placing each foot with deliberate silence. Palo followed, feeling the cold floor through his shoes.
The deeper they went, the more the walls felt… wrong.
The shelves weren't dusty.
They weren't rusted.
Some had scratches on them — deep ones, as if someone had dragged metal along metal in a hurry.
Palo touched one gently.
"Ash," he whispered, "what exactly is kept here?"
Ash's eyes fixed on a particular shelf number — 13-07.
"The things nobody is supposed to remember."
---
Drawer 13-07
Ash stopped in front of the shelf.
A single metal drawer was already slightly open, like someone had touched it moments before they arrived.
Palo's breath hitched. "Ash… we didn't open that."
Ash nodded, expression tightening. "I know."
The overhead lights buzzed faintly.
Ash reached for the drawer and pulled it open the rest of the way.
Inside were folders bound with old red tape. The labels were handwritten, but faded. Palo leaned in, squinting.
"'Subject 11.' 'Incident 4B.' 'Unidentified Youth Case.'"
His voice trembled. "Youth case? Does that mean—?"
Ash pulled out the top file.
The moment he did, a cold wave washed through the air — sharp enough to make Palo shiver violently.
Ash opened the file.
And stiffened.
"What is it?" Palo whispered.
Ash slowly turned the page toward him.
Inside, taped to the paper, was a photograph.
A boy.
Palo's age.
Ash's age.
The photo was old, but the expression was crystal clear: frightened, eyes wide, staring at something outside the frame.
Palo felt a heaviness settle in his stomach.
"Who is that?" he asked.
Ash didn't answer at first.
His grip tightened on the file.
His jaw clenched.
His eyes didn't blink.
Finally, he spoke.
"That's me."
Palo's breath caught.
"Ash… that can't be—"
"It is." Ash's voice sounded hollow. "This file shouldn't exist. No documents about my childhood exist. My mother erased them all."
Palo stared at him. "Then how is this here?"
Ash flipped another page.
Reports.
Charts.
Observations.
Page after page of cold, clinical notes.
Palo dared to read a line.
> Subject demonstrates abnormal recall abilities. Possible sensory overload patterns. Monitor closely.
Palo felt his gut twist.
"Ash… they were studying you?"
Ash didn't answer.
He turned one more page — and the lights overhead flickered violently.
Palo jerked back.
"Ash—"
Before he could finish, something clattered behind them.
A drawer.
Slamming shut.
Palo spun around, heart pounding.
"No one's there," he whispered.
Ash closed the file.
"We're not alone."
He looked down the corridor.
"Something else is moving the archives."
---
A Warning in the Dark
Suddenly, a single strip light at the far end went out.
Then another.
Then another.
The darkness crept toward them like a slow wave.
Palo grabbed Ash's sleeve. "We need to go—now!"
But Ash wasn't looking at the lights.
His attention was fixed on the file he held.
There were more pages inside — ones he hadn't opened yet.
Palo shook his head frantically. "Ash, please—this place is closing in!"
Ash hesitated… then forced himself to set the file back into the drawer.
"We come back for it later," he said quietly. "When we know how to deal with whatever's down here."
The darkness swallowed another row of lights.
Closer.
Palo's voice cracked. "What if it reaches us?"
Ash grabbed Palo's wrist — firm, urgent, protective in a strictly survival sense.
"Then we run faster."
---
Retreat
They sprinted back down the corridor, dodging boxes and shelves as the lights died in rapid succession behind them. The sound of drawers slamming echoed like distant thunder.
Palo didn't dare look back.
Ash kept pace beside him, guiding him around corners, across junctions, through shadows.
The stairwell door came into view.
Just as they reached it, the last light behind them flickered and died.
Total darkness flooded the archives.
But in the silence, Palo heard something else:
A whisper.
Soft.
Breathing.
Almost human.
Ash shoved the iron door closed with a heavy thud.
He slammed the bolt shut.
Palo leaned against the wall, shaking.
"Ash… what was that?"
Ash's expression was unreadable.
Haunted.
Cold.
"That wasn't the man who followed us," he said quietly.
Palo swallowed hard. "Then who?"
Ash exhaled slowly, as if finally accepting something he knew all along.
"Not who," he whispered.
"What."
---