The top floor is quieter than it should be.
No settling creaks. No distant sirens bleeding through cracked glass. Even my footsteps sound muted, like the building itself is holding its breath. The stairwell spits me out into a narrow corridor washed in emergency light, the red glow too steady to be comforting.
There’s only one door.
It stands at the far end, half open, its shadow stretched long across the floor. No signage. No markings. Just a plain metal frame, paint blistered at the edges, hinge exposed like a joint that’s been dislocated and never set back right.
I don’t rush it.
Adrian counts on momentum. On the way fear and anger shove people forward before they look. I slow my breathing, roll my shoulders once, feel where the ache has settled in my ribs, catalog the damage witho
