Gary pulls Ashlynn back and steps forward.
"Wait," Ashlynn says as her hand stretches forward.
Gary stops and turns. "Too dark?"
Ashlynn nods.
I unhook the nearest liquid lanterns from the stairwell wall. I tie one to my belt. Light spills across my coat. The other I fasten around Ashlynn's waist, the glow cutting clean against the blue of her prison uniform.
"Thanks, Len," Ashlynn nods with a thin smile.
I don't respond. I'm already scanning the dark.
"I already lost my right hand," Gary says. "You keep the key from now on."
He hands his key to Ashlynn.
We're ready to explore the final floor.
Gary moves first. We follow.
The hallway is dark—minimal lighting, long stretches swallowed whole.
Gary raises two fingers. We slow without speaking.
"The sound echoes," he says. Then, quieter: "I'd rather it doesn't echo back."
We slow. One step at a time. Gary sets the pace. We copy it.
The light illuminates our steps but not our path.
Pillars rise out of the dark. Some are fitted with lantern brackets, identical to the upper floors. Others are bare. Clean stone.
The floor is too clean. No blood. No dark liquid. No bodies.
The lantern brackets aren't dusty. Some of the stone is still damp.
I glance at Ashlynn—her mole. She frowns and counts quietly on her fingers. She notices me watching and looks back, confused.
I smile. No response.
We keep walking.
Then we stop at a massive steel door.
Ashlynn steps forward without being told. She fits the key into the lock.
Click. Click. Click.
"It's already unlocked," she whispers.
The door opens without resistance.
Gary doesn't comment.
A long corridor stretches left and right.
Dark. Quiet. Lined with doors. No lighting at all.
"Which door?"
"It was months ago," Gary whispers back. "Check each door."
"We open doors on the left. You right," I whisper.
He nods.
We approach our first door.
I test the handle first.
Creak.
The first door.
Brooms. Mops. Wooden chests that could fit two bodies.
Creak.
The second. The same.
By the fourth, I stop checking.
I look at Gary checking on the right side.
"Gary," I whisper toward his direction.
He doesn't notice.
"Gary," I whisper again.
Still doesn't notice.
I walk toward him, but my boot scrapes the uneven floor.
Too loud.
The sound doesn't stop.
"Shhhhh." Gary turns and holds his finger to his nose.
We freeze as we hold our breath.
I look one direction and then the other. I listen.
Nothing responds. I let a small breath out.
He crawls to us quick and steady.
Gary raises one finger. Not a warning. A command. "Sound carries," he whispers. "Silence is the voice of death."
I nod—but I don't lower my shoulders.
The corridor doesn't feel like it's listening behind us.
It feels like it's listening ahead.
Ashlynn steps closer—already moving for the door.
"We skip this section."
"No," Gary whispers, a bit too loud. "Let's not miss a door."
"Can you be specific?" I whisper back.
"One door leads to a corridor." He whispers. "Then the corridor leads to freedom."
He doesn't explain further and returns to the right side.
Ashlynn and I finish the left. No branching corridor. Nothing but storage.
"Next section," I whisper a bit loud. Just enough to reach Gary.
Gary nods from his position.
We move to a different section of the corridor.
Ashlynn steps toward its door. She fits the key into its keyhole.
Click. Click. Click.
Also unlocked.
Like no one bothered to lock it.
Gary gives us a signal.
He goes for the right doors.
We go to the left.
I don't bother checking the lock this time. I open the first door.
Creak.
I step inside. Empty. We move on.
The next door swings open as I touch it.
Tool racks. But no tools. Another one opens again. Tool racks. Fitted with saws, hammers, and chisels.
Gary raises his hand—not two fingers this time. Just one.
He steps back from a door we haven't touched yet.
"Not this one," he whispers.
Gary tilts his head, listening.
"Too clean," he says. "No echo. Someone's been here."
Then the next door opens.
Not forced. Not damaged.
We walk in.
A body. In the middle of the tool racks, a faceless guard. Cut in half. The edges are clean. Not only sharp—precise.
Whatever did this didn't struggle.
Ashlynn doesn't scream.
She steps back instead—slow, careful. Her hand finds the lantern at her waist and tightens.
Then a sharp inhale—
I clamp my hand over her mouth. Too late. The sound has already escaped. It bounces down the corridor, folding back on itself.
We hold still.
No one breathes.
My heart is racing. I don't slow it down. Some part of me wants to see what answers.
Gary walks toward us—fast but quiet—into the room we're in.
"Shhhhhh."
Ashlynn clamps her hand over her own mouth, breathing through her nose until the sound dies.
Then Gary pivots too fast.
His injured arm clips a tool rack.
CLANK.
Metal scatters, and its sound travels and echoes far. Gary goes very still as he closes his eyes and bites his lips. He knows that was his fault.
We freeze again.
Silence. The silence stretches. Too long.
We let out a breath of relief.
But—
This time the corridor echoes a familiar sound.
Something drags.
Slow.
Measured.
Chain.