We take the stairs down.
Step by step. Deeper.
The stairwell tightens as we descend. Stone walls close in, sweating faint moisture that darkens the edges of the steps. Liquid lanterns sit at fixed intervals, their light thin, barely enough to outline where to place our feet. They don't flicker. They don't warm the air.
A door comes into view.
Steel. Thick. Clean.
Gary slows.
"Not through there," he says quietly. "That's the fourth floor."
"Still further down?" I ask.
"Yes."
We walk past it and continue down, Gary's back never leaves our sight.
Ashlynn looks past him, into the stairwell's throat. "Will we ever go through the fourth floor?"
Gary doesn't answer at first. He keeps walking.
"We'll go there when we go there," his tone flat.
The stairs continue.
Each step weighs more than the last. Our boots sound wrong here—too loud, too sharp. The echoes stretch downward and don't return the same way. I start counting without meaning to. Lose the count. Start again. Lose it faster.
The stairwell ends.
The fifth floor.
A final landing. No further descent. The stone here is darker, smoother, worn by long use—and longer neglect. A steel door blocks the way forward. Its surface is polished. It reflects us.
Painted at its center: a blue eye.
The shape stops me.
The color follows.
My chest tightens before I know why.
I've seen it before. In the red notebook. Not drawn carefully—pressed, repeated, almost stamped.
Seeing it here makes the space feel smaller. Like the walls have shifted while we weren't looking.
Gary reaches for his key. Slide it into the keyhole.
Metal scrapes.
He frowns and tries again. Slower this time.
"It doesn't fit."
He pulls the key free, staring at it like it betrayed him.
"Damn it. Wrong one." He exhales through his teeth. "We'll have to go back up. Find the—"
Ashlynn steps forward.
"I can try."
Gary hesitates. Just long enough to matter. Then he steps aside.
She reaches up and pulls a thin strip of metal from beneath her hair, hidden at the base of her scalp. The movement is smooth. Familiar. Her hands don't shake.
She kneels and works the lock.
"Good thing we rescued Ashlynn," Gary says, forcing lightness.
She doesn't look back. "I rescued myself. Same as you."
A pause settles. Not hostile. Just honest.
I hear the lock resist—not jammed. Not broken.
Ashlynn's brow furrows. She adjusts her grip, slows down.
"Is it done yet?" I ask.
"This isn't alchemy," she mutters. "It takes time."
Gary shifts his weight. "Alchemy takes time too."
She almost smiles. Almost.
Click.
The sound is soft. Final.
The door unlocks.
Ashlynn leans back. She lifts two fingers slightly, palm loose, already turning her attention away from the door. "Open." One of her brow rises, slightly smiling.
I tap her shoulder, light. "Good work."
She looks up at me, surprised by the contact. Then nods once.
Gary places his hand on the door.
He doesn't open it immediately.
He tilts his head, listening—not just with his ears. His breathing changes.
He opens the door slightly. He peeks inside.
"T-shaped hallway," he whispers. "Empty. I think."
I nod.
Then he pushes the door open wide.
We step through.
It's the same as the third floor. Same width. Same angles. Same dead symmetry. For half a second, my body reacts like we've gone nowhere at all.
Then the smell hits.
Bodies—or what's left of them—are piled against the walls, slumped near doorways, scattered across the floor. Some are old, collapsed inward, flesh breaking down into dark shapes. Others are recent. Too recent.
I slow without meaning to.
Up close, the wounds don't look like weapons. No clean cuts. No fractures from impact. Flesh has been torn away—ragged, uneven. Teeth marks. Scratches carved deep enough to show bone. Bite wounds cluster around the neck, the abdomen. Places chosen to end things fast.
"These are lessies," Gary says.
"Lessies?" Ashlynn asks.
"That's what he calls them, the faceless guards," I say, nodding toward the bodies.
We move again. Carefully.
The hallway opens at the center—where the elevator shaft should be.
I stop.
The elevator isn't just broken. The shaft is torn open, metal peeled back and twisted. Far below, something large and dark rests at an angle.
A crash site.
"What happened to the elevators?" Ashlynn asks.
"Second-floor drop," Gary says. He shrugs, like he's already finished thinking about it.
He doesn't explain.
"We should finish our mission quickly," he adds.
"Or what?" I ask.
He looks at me now. Really looks.
"Why do you think this place is empty?"
I don't answer.
I look at the shaft. Then the bodies. Then the branching corridors ahead.
My heart starts to race. Not controlled. Not measured. Fast. Loud. Urgent.
The thought doesn't feel like mine.
It arrives complete.
Before I can examine it—before I can decide what it means—
The answer reveals itself.