The sun had already begun its lazy descent, casting an orange glow that slowly bled into deep purple across the sky as Drew heaved the last of the garbage bags onto the pile behind the restaurant. The scent of rot, sour oil, and old vegetables clung to the air around the back alley, but he barely flinched anymore. The task had become his rhythm—wake, clean, dump, eat scraps, sleep. The old man who ran the place hardly spoke unless it was to bark orders or hand him leftovers wrapped in brown paper, but at least he gave Drew a place to stay.
Sweat dripped from Drew's brow as he dusted his hands on his worn-out jeans. His palms were rough now, calloused from days of scraping moldy food off rusting pans and hauling bins heavier than they looked. He slipped behind the small structure that housed his compartment—the little room with just enough space for a mat, a low wooden stool, and a dim yellow bulb—and retrieved the crumpled map from under the floorboard. Alongside it was his journal, which held sketched diagrams, notes, and faded memories of a place that had once been real—though now, even he was starting to question it.
The journal fell open to the familiar drawing—a building with tall iron gates and an octagonal emblem on its front wall, half-covered in ivy. Beside the sketch were lines of messy writing, his handwriting from months ago, frantic and sharp. "Shutdown confirmed. Official story: fire. Real reason: unknown. Multiple entries. Unofficial sightings. Coordinates aligned with secondary source."
Tonight was the night.
With careful fingers, Drew folded the map and slid it into the inner pocket of his hoodie. He rolled up the journal and tied it with a bit of string before tucking it into his backpack, which already contained a flashlight, a penknife, and the only bottle of water he had left.
By the time he stepped out onto the quiet road, the last light of the day was fading. Street lamps flickered to life, one after the other, casting eerie halos onto the cracked sidewalks. He rubbed the few coins he'd gathered today between his fingers, still warm from the hands of strangers. He had earned them for cleaning the front windows, stacking beer crates, and for running errands during lunch rush. Kind-hearted or just amused, those strangers had no idea they were financing something much larger.
A dusty taxi finally slowed as he waved one hand in the air. The driver was a middle-aged man with thick glasses and the unmistakable scowl of someone who didn't enjoy small talk.
"Where to?" he asked.
Drew gave the name of the old industrial zone near the edge of Heldale. The driver raised an eyebrow but didn't ask questions. The engine sputtered to life and they rolled off into the night.
As the streets turned darker and buildings grew fewer, Drew's anticipation twisted in his chest. Heldale's most funded laboratory was a ghostland now—restricted years ago and never brought to use or renovation due to rumors of radiation, chemical waste, or something else entirely. Most people avoided it altogether. But Drew had reasons to believe that what was buried there was not dead.
The taxi slowed after about twenty minutes. They had reached a small, overgrown street lined with skeletal trees. Weeds shot up through cracked asphalt. The iron gate in the distance was rusted and wide open, barely hanging onto its hinges. Beyond it was what once might've been a research facility, now cloaked in shadows and wrapped in vines. It stood hunched and foreboding.
"Here?" the driver asked, adjusting his glasses.
Drew nodded and handed him the coins. He didn't wait for change.
The man looked back one last time, then drove off, his tail lights disappearing like fireflies swallowed by night.
Drew stood alone now, backpack slung over one shoulder, staring at the building ahead. The place was real.
He approached carefully, his footsteps silent on the overgrown path. The air was unnaturally still—no dogs barking, no crickets, not even the hum of distant traffic. Just the sound of his own breath and the rustle of his shoes in the weeds.
The outer fence had once been lined with motion sensors but was now lined with warning signs. Some of the signs were already knocked over to the ground maybe by the wind and some were rusted into unreadable slabs.
He slipped through the gate and followed the path to a hidden entrance where the wall was cracked and partially caved in. His fingers brushed against the concrete. Cold. Smooth in some places. Scorched in others.
The flashlight's beam cut through the dark as he ducked inside, revealing dust particles that floated like ash in the air. The place smelled like wet metal and mildew. He found himself in what used to be a hallway, lined with broken glass panels and long-dead fluorescents hanging from the ceiling like lifeless arms.
He took slow, measured steps, navigating debris and twisted furniture. On the far wall was a diagram of the building layout—half torn, water-damaged, but still legible enough to show him where the sub-labs used to be. He traced a finger across it. Lab B-3. That was the one he had marked in his journal.
The corridors grew tighter as he descended into the bowels of the building. At one point, he passed what looked like a security post with shattered monitors and a control panel. Wires dangled from the ceiling like black vines. He kept his flashlight low, moving fast but silent. The deeper he went, the colder it became. Something in the walls seemed to hum faintly, a vibration he could feel more in his bones than his ears.
He finally reached the steel doors of Lab B-3. They were shut tight, but one side had buckled slightly from what must have been an internal blast. It took him five whole minutes to squeeze through the gap, scraping his shoulder against jagged metal.
The inside of the lab was chaos frozen in time.
Tables were overturned, glass tubes shattered across the floor. A chalkboard still had equations scrawled in bright white. A large metal chamber—cylindrical and open at one end—dominated the room like a tomb. Machines around it were half-melted, scorched black.
Drew stood in the center, shining the flashlight around. His heart pounded.