The silence settled like dust—unmoving, absolute.
Elias stared at the locked door.
He hadn't touched it.
Not even once.
But there it was—ajar. Just slightly. Just enough to see the sliver of darkness beyond.
The west wing hallway was completely dark now. The main security lights had gone into full lock mode. He could hear the faint tick of automated bolts snapping into place along the corridor behind him.
He was trapped.
Technically, he could call someone. Or knock until security came. But that would mean explaining why he hadn't left on time. Why he'd been cleaning a section already closed. Why he was still here at all.
He didn't want to explain.
No one ever listened anyway.
So instead, Elias stood in the stillness and stared at the iron door. The one with the rusted Latin words etched above the frame.
Non Libris, Sed Veritate.
Not by books, but by truth.
The air around the door was colder. Not breezy—just… wrong. Like the temperature didn't match the space. Like this part of the building had been cut out of another world and stitched into this one by accident.
He took a step closer.
The hinges creaked—a soft, old, metallic whine. The door moved, slowly, as if acknowledging him. A breath of air slipped past, not fresh, not stale, but sharp—like iron and something older.
Elias froze.
He wasn't a coward. But he also wasn't stupid. Every instinct in his body was telling him to walk away.
So why couldn't he?
His hand hovered near the edge of the door.
He didn't push it.
But it still opened—just a little more.
The darkness beyond wasn't complete. Somewhere inside, a faint orange glow flickered—like a candle guttering deep in a tunnel.
The air shifted again.
He heard it this time.
A sound.
Faint.
Far away.
Like paper turning.
Not a draft. Not wind.
Something waiting.
Elias glanced back down the hall—dark, sealed, silent.
Then he looked forward, into the impossible room.
He didn't move.
But he knew.
He was going in.