The Hollow thrummed beneath them, a living maze of concrete and forgotten code. Griffydd traced flickers across the monitors, fingers steady despite the unease gnawing at him.
Elin crouched by an open panel, listening. "It's breathing," she whispered.
Valley shrugged, a wry grin tugging at his lips. "Maybe it just likes the company."
Jake padded between them, ears flicking at every drip and spark. The dog's soft mouth-clicks and jittery taps had become their best early-warning system—instinctive, reliable.
"Something nudged the pattern last night," Griffydd muttered. "Not random."
A distant clang echoed overhead. Somewhere deeper, chickens clucked in protest.
Valley tapped out an old 80s riff on the railing—quiet enough not to wake the drones above. "Keep your hands steady, old man."
Jake froze, nose pressed to a concrete seam. A faint flicker ran along it—brief, deliberate.
Griffydd leaned closer. Tiny scratches arrowed toward a dust-covered panel.
"Someone's been here," he murmured.
"Or something's been waiting," Valley corrected.
Jake barked once—soft, urgent—and circled the panel.
Elin brushed away grime. Beneath: a recessed lever, cool to the touch.
Griffydd's pulse matched the distant hum rising through the floor.
They weren't alone down here anymore.