The descent to the twelfth floor was quiet.
Not the suffocating silence of death.
Not the tense silence of anticipation.
Just... quiet.
After everything they had witnessed on the upper floors, Penelope found herself hoping that perhaps this floor had been spared.
She knew better.
But hope had become difficult to let go of.
As they stepped onto the twelfth-floor landing, the first thing Penelope noticed was the furniture.
Sofas.
Dining chairs.
Bookshelves.
Every piece had been dragged into the hallway and stacked against the elevator and stairwell entrances. The makeshift barricades weren't professional, but they were effective. Someone had thought ahead.
Penelope exchanged a glance with Killian.
"They prepared."
Killian nodded.
"They adapted."
Before Penelope could respond, a scream echoed from the far end of the hallway.
Not a scream of terror.
A scream of effort.
"GET AWAY FROM MY MOM!"
A loud crash followed.
Then another.
