My hand hovered over the doorknob.
The scraping behind me was closer now, the steady drag punctuated by a faint hiss. Whatever it was, it was in no hurry.
The scarf on the knob fluttered once, though there was no draft.
I didn't want to touch it. I didn't want to see what was behind the door.
But I wanted even less to find out what was coming down the tunnel.
I gripped the scarf—it was warm, as if someone had been holding it moments ago—and twisted the knob. The door swung inward with a whisper of hinges.
Light.
Not the pale, sickly glow of flickering bulbs or the cold blue of the scarf's threads. This was warm, golden light that poured over me like a memory of summer.
I stepped inside.
The air was clean. Fresh.
I turned—and the red door shut behind me with a soft click. The sound was final, as though the lock slid into place by itself.
The room was nothing like the tunnels. No rust, no mold, no dripping water. Just smooth wooden floors, walls painted in soft cream, and a faint smell of cinnamon.
It could have been a room in someone's home before the world burned.
On the far wall, a small round table sat with two chairs. A teapot steamed gently in the center, two cups already poured.
And on one of the cups… a lipstick mark.
I froze. My gaze went to the chair beside it—pushed back slightly, as if someone had stood up moments ago.
"Lena," I whispered.
The name seemed to hang in the still air.
I crossed to the table, every step careful, half-expecting the floorboards to creak. They didn't.
The tea was still hot. The steam curled upward lazily.
I touched the cup with the lipstick mark. It was warm—too warm.
She'd been here. Recently.
A faint ticking sound came from somewhere beyond the walls. I turned my head, trying to place it, but it faded.
Instead, my attention was caught by a faint indentation in the cushion of the other chair. It was deeper in the center, as if someone heavier than Lena had been sitting there.
The ticking sound returned, louder this time, coming from a closed door across the room.
I looked back at the table. Beside the teapot sat a folded napkin, perfectly square.
Curiosity got the better of me. I unfolded it.
Inside, written in Lena's handwriting, was a single line:
Drink nothing. Touch nothing.
I dropped the napkin like it burned me.
The ticking became a steady, mechanical rhythm.
I backed away from the table. My stomach twisted. How had she known I'd be here?
The warmth of the place suddenly felt stifling. The golden light seemed too bright.
I went to the other door, listening. The ticking was loud now, almost in sync with my heartbeat.
I reached for the handle—
—and the red door behind me slammed open.
I spun, knife in hand.
Nothing came through. No scraping creature. Just darkness beyond the threshold.
But the golden light from this room didn't spill into the tunnel. It stopped at the doorway like there was an invisible wall.
Then, faintly, I saw it.
A shadow moving inside that darkness. Tall. Broad. Not the hunched, clawed thing I'd been running from.
This shape was human.
It didn't step forward. It just… waited.
The ticking behind me became a rapid click-click-click.
I turned toward the sound—and froze.
The teapot on the table was shaking, rattling against the wood. The steam pouring from its spout had turned black.
And the cups were empty.
I hadn't touched them.
The napkin on the floor was gone.
The air shifted. The warmth drained away, replaced by a creeping cold that crawled under my skin.
From the other door, a faint draft blew out—carrying that same perfume Lena always wore.
I didn't know if it was a warning or an invitation.
But the red door was already swinging shut, the darkness beyond it swallowing the shadow whole.
The click-click-click stopped.
Silence.
Then, from behind the closed second door, a voice—soft, almost kind—spoke my name.
"Adam."