Drew moved further into the lab, his flashlight beam cutting through the thick, musty air like a sword. Dust motes danced in the faint light, swirling around him as he crept across the cracked concrete floor. Every step echoed unnervingly through the long-abandoned corridor. Faint creaks, rustling pipes, and occasional drips of water sounded off in the distance, adding to the haunting silence that surrounded him.
The deeper he ventured, the colder it got. The natural warmth from outside had long dissipated within these walls. It felt like he had stepped into a forgotten underworld, sealed away from time.
His heart pounded in his chest, not entirely from fear but from anticipation. He was finally here. The lab. The famous one his father had been suspicious about. The place tied to the horror that had befallen this town—the robot.
Up ahead, he noticed an iron door. Unlike the others he'd passed, this one looked intact, albeit aged. Thick layers of grime coated its surface, and rust ate into the hinges. He gently placed his hand on the cool, rough surface and pushed. It groaned in resistance at first, then gave way with a metallic screech that echoed like a scream down the hall.
What he found inside made him stop.
The room was small but chaotic. Cement debris littered the cracked tiled floor, and broken glass crunched beneath his shoes. The air reeked of mold, rust, and an odd chemical tinge. Along one wall, there were metal shelves, all either broken or empty, their contents scattered in disarray.
But at the center was a large desk, partially buried under papers, rusted tools, and broken equipment.
Drew approached it cautiously, the beam of his flashlight landing on the edge of the tabletop. He reached out and brushed his hand over the dusty surface. It was rough, sticky in some places—perhaps from dried-up chemicals or ink spills that had aged into the wood.
With a deep breath, he began to sort through the mess.
Paper after paper passed through his fingers. Most were faded beyond recognition. Others contained scientific symbols and texts that made little sense to him. Diagrams. Formulas. Fragmented logs. He had little knowledge of scientific operations, but one thing he knew was that every scientist kept clean records of their works and innovations, so even he could tell these weren't the official, organized documents he'd been hoping to find. Everything felt like discarded drafts, like something someone had left in a hurry.
Still, he pressed on.
If he could use the limited time he had now to go through the papers and find something that could link him to the creation of the killer robot by an unknown scientist.
Although not knowing the name of the creator of the robot and neither did his father but he was certain was that the person was a grave psychopath to create something so deadly.
"If someone created it…" Drew muttered to himself, flipping through more of the papers, "they had to write it down somewhere."
His flashlight flickered. He hit it lightly, and it steadied again. But the pulse in his neck quickened. He didn't have much time.
Drew paused, taking a slow breath. He looked at the back of the room where a cabinet sat, its door halfway open. The corner of a thick folder jutted out. Curious, he went over and tugged the folder free. A cloud of dust erupted into the air, making him cough.
He opened the folder slowly.
Inside were more papers, and these were far more structured. Dated logs. Project files. He squinted at the handwriting. It was jagged, precise—borderline obsessive. The pages were numbered, but not in sequence. Some were torn. Others were blackened on the edges like they'd been partially burned.
And there, on one of the sheets, he saw it—a sketch of something that made his blood run cold.
A depiction of a humanoid figure—headless—armed with mechanical limbs that appeared stronger than any human. Wires protruded from the joints, and there were arrows pointing to nodes labeled "core aggression algorithm" and "primary directive override." Another page detailed something called "synthetic neurological layering."
Underneath the sketch was written in plain writing.
"Subject 00-X. Finalized prototype – survival adaptation model."
He had no idea what that meant, but the phrase made his skin crawl.
"This has to be it…" Drew whispered.
He was no expert, but his gut told him this was connected to the robot—the same monster that had ripped people apart without remorse. The machine that had haunted the town's past and still loomed as a shadow in the present.
He flipped through more pages, faster now. He didn't know how much time had gone until he pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. It was already 9:46 PM and curfew was 14 minutes away.
Drew then grabbed the sketch in his hand, tucked it into his bag, and bolted out of the room.
His boots pounded against the dusty, uneven floor as he raced down the corridor, the flashlight jerking violently in his grip, its beam flaring and wobbling across the ruined walls.
He didn't look back but panic clawed up his chest like ivy as he pushed through a rusted metal frame that once held a door. The hallway forked—one path leading toward the generator room, the other toward the emergency exit sign he had noticed earlier when he first entered.
He checked his watch again, now it was reading 9:50 PM. He cursed under his breath and darted into the generator hallway instead. The air here was thicker, hotter, and smelled of burning oil. He sprinted past decayed control panels and shattered light fixtures, ducking low under a fallen pipe that sparked faintly with dying electricity.
He turned sharply into an old stairwell, nearly tripping over broken concrete. His flashlight flickered again, and this time it died completely. Darkness swallowed everything.
But Drew didn't stop. He forced himself up the stairs, two at a time, using the wall to guide him. His breaths came fast, ragged, and loud in his ears. His backpack thumped against his spine with every step—the stolen sketches, the evidence, the danger—all pressing down on him.
He reached the upper floor and flung open the rusted access door, emerging into the outside world again as the moonlight came into view.