At first, the corridor felt like nothing.
The air was dry and over-filtered, every molecule scrubbed by decades of dormant sterilizers. The walls were clean to the point of aggression — flat, featureless white stretching outward on either side, broken only by the soft pulse of embedded floor panels, which flickered faintly beneath each step. No doorways. No consoles. No lights beyond the ones reacting to their bodies.
Aya stepped cautiously beside Hernan, boots scuffing the floor with a low hiss. Iro followed at her six. No one spoke. The silence wasn't heavy — it was watching.
The first flicker came when Hernan passed the fourth panel.
