The voice suddenly cut off, as if someone was attempting to shout a phrase, but the sound was abruptly snuffed out, choked into silence halfway through the first word.
The tattooed man turned towards the sound, only to find the office area behind him littered with debris, but otherwise empty.
"Was that... just my imagination?"
The tattooed man felt puzzled; after all, a half-formed word he thought he'd heard was a little too vague for him to discern. But despite his extensive experience in the post-apocalyptic world, he knew he couldn't confidently determine whether it was a figment of his imagination.
He continued walking. Dust coating the doors of numerous rooms was marked with handprints, clearly freshly made. Yet, the more he walked, the stronger the feeling grew that something was amiss — an elusive something hidden from his perception.
