-
-
DATE:19th of June, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
-------------------------------------------------
-
-
Alice's family residence was bigger than I'd expected—small mansion might've been a generous description, but it certainly had an air of wealth. Large gardens wrapped around the place, well-kept and blooming, even in the colder months. Alice had explained that her family wasn't old money, just that her father had struck gold with his patents for vaccines and treatments. Not exactly the image of a selfless healer.
The mansion itself was an old structure, but I could tell it had been thoroughly renovated, blending a traditional charm with a modern gloss. We walked into what looked like a reception room—a grand entryway with a wide staircase, and directly above it, a family crest that felt strangely out of place.
Alice caught my look and rolled her eyes, murmuring, "We're not nobility. Dad just thought an insignia made the place feel more... official."
"Is that so?" I replied, giving the crest a scrutinizing glance. It was decorative, sure, but in a place like this, it added a subtle edge, as though branding the family legacy into every corner.
As we stepped further in, I took in the space—warmly lit, filled with the cozy sort of decor you'd find in any well-to-do home, but there was something sterile about it, a strange antiseptic smell hanging in the air. The place was spotless, too spotless, maybe.
It made sense, I supposed, considering her father's background, but still. For a family home, it had an odd atmosphere, a little too much like stepping into the waiting room of a private clinic.
It struck me, then, how little Alice seemed to belong here—especially with her father, a man who looked every bit the wealthy, driven bioengineer he was. He sat at the head of the table with a controlled air, the kind of man who kept meticulous care over himself. He was in his late sixties, though only the faintest hints of silver at the temples hinted at it; the rest had clearly been masked with dye, creams, who knew what else.
Then there was her mother. She looked so out of place in every way. A housekeeper had led us in, directed us to this grand dining room with vintage tapestries, oil paintings, and polished woodwork, the kind of space where every piece felt older than me. But Alice's mother was something else entirely, and I wasn't prepared for the sight. She looked like she could be in her thirties—barely older than me, only a few years past Alice's age. They'd been introduced to me as her parents, but it felt like watching two different stories unfold.
Alice had warned me her mother was… unusual. She didn't manage the household, didn't care about typical social circles or even the usual hobbies of someone with their kind of money. From what Alice told me, her mother flitted from one project to the next—painting, gardening, even learning the harp, only to drop each one as soon as another caught her eye. And sitting there, she had the demeanor of someone both out of place and comfortably resigned to it.
I could tell that for Alice, this was nothing surprising. But for me, this sharp contrast was jarring. Her father exuded authority, intellect, that intense demeanor of a man obsessed with his work. Her mother, on the other hand, looked almost carefree—like someone untouched by the harsher realities of time, or maybe just untouched by reality itself.
And as I looked between them, I couldn't help but notice: Alice's mother looked more like his daughter than his wife. Hypocritical as it might've been, given my own ten-year gap with Alice, at least we looked like we belonged in the same world.
But they… well, maybe I was starting to understand what Alice had meant.
Her father rose from his seat, extending a hand toward me with a firm grip, his gaze assessing. "I must say, you keep yourself in excellent shape," he commented, as though noting a point in my favor.
"Thank you, sir," I replied, meeting his gaze steadily.
He gestured toward the chairs. "Please, take a seat." He nodded at Alice, his voice carrying a proud, almost theatrical weight. "I'm Dr. Lucas Mallory," he said, the name and title carefully enunciated, as though expecting I'd know of him. "And this is my wife, Mara."
Mara inclined her head, a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes flickering across her face. "Welcome," she said, her tone a bit distant, like she was acknowledging a formality rather than genuinely greeting me.
"Thank you, it's an honor to be here," I said, glancing briefly at Alice, who gave me a reassuring nod as we both settled into our seats.
Once we were seated, Lucas turned his attention back to me, the look in his eyes probing. "So, tell me… what line of work are you in?"
For a second, my mind scrambled, but I remembered just in time. "I'm a photographer."
He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Photographer? Ah, for BubbleTV?" he asked, referring to Alice's workplace with a casual familiarity.
"No, actually, I'm a freelancer," I replied smoothly, glancing over at Alice, who smiled and jumped in.
"He's traveled all over the world for his work," she added, her tone filled with admiration.
That seemed to pique his interest further. "Is that so? Well, the life of a freelancer—freedom, exploration. Not everyone could handle that," he noted, as if assessing my worth by the experiences I could offer Alice.
Lucas leaned back, evidently satisfied with my answer, and a spark of enthusiasm lit up in his expression. "You know, our work is not entirely different—capturing the world in ways most people don't see. I, however, focus on capturing it through the lens of science."
I nodded, knowing Alice had told me he was well-regarded in the fields of vaccines and treatments. Still, he went on, clearly proud to elaborate.
He launched into a detailed description of his work, going on about the complexities of genetic research and the breakthroughs he'd achieved in treatments and vaccines.
Alice's gaze flicked to her mother, concern in her eyes. Mara looked lost in thought, gazing off toward the tapestry on the far wall. She wasn't exactly uninterested; it was more like she was physically here, but her mind was wandering somewhere else entirely.
Lucas seemed to notice, and with a small smile, he directed his attention to her. "As I was saying, my dear wife is quite the painter," he said, his voice warm but with a touch of formality, as if he were reciting a line he'd used before. "Did you have a chance to see her works?"
I shook my head. "No, not yet."
He gave a nod, then turned to Mara. "Mara, you should show him your gallery later," he suggested, his tone encouraging, but I noticed a hint of expectation.
Mara blinked, focusing her attention on us. "Oh, of course," she murmured, her voice airy. "I'd love to."
Lucas's gaze shifted back to Alice and me, his eyes sparking with curiosity. "So, how did you two meet?"
Alice and I exchanged a quick glance, and I jumped in, keeping it light. "We met at an event a few months back. She was with some friends, and I happened to be taking photos for a travel feature I was working on. We got to talking, and… well, it took off from there."
He leaned forward, his expression assessing. "And how far have you two gone in your relationship?"
Alice stiffened slightly, but she managed a polite smile. "We're... taking things day by day, seeing where it leads," she replied smoothly.
I nodded, backing her up. "Exactly. We're both focused on our careers, but we're committed to making it work."
Lucas's eyes narrowed just a fraction, as though weighing our words. "Career-driven, yet making time for each other… commendable. Balance is important."
Alice smiled, and I noticed her shoulders relax a bit. "We're both learning as we go," she added, glancing over at me with a touch of genuine warmth.
"Well, that's good," Lucas replied, sounding pleased. "Relationships are an investment, after all. One worth the time and effort—if it's for the right person."
Mara gave a small smile, her expression distant but kind, before she glanced away again, her attention drifting back to the room's ornate decor.
Lucas's expression darkened immediately when Alice mentioned Secundo Manus. He stiffened, his smile vanishing as his fingers drummed slowly on the table. "That vile man... I should have known he was still active," he muttered bitterly, almost to himself. "If only people knew the kind of experiments he conducted, the lives he... disregarded. He was a menace then, and I imagine he's only grown worse."
Alice seemed to hesitate, realizing the effect her words had on him, but she pressed on, perhaps hoping he'd appreciate knowing that his daughter was fighting against the remnants of Secundo's work. "Dad, we've actually encountered his associates. We found his disciple at a chip factory owned by Matthew. She was after some kind of experimental tech."
Lucas gave me a steely look, his distaste for Secundo transferring into a pointed curiosity about my actions. "And what did you do there?"
"She ran away," I answered, matching his gaze. "She had some form of kinetic energy dispenser... I'm not sure if she found what she was looking for, but she dissapeared."
He watched me carefully, as if gauging the weight of my words, then gave a small, approving nod. "Good," he murmured, though his voice was laced with lingering resentment. "They'll ruin anyone they get their hands on."
Alice leaned closer to me, sensing the tension. "We also fought the Combine gang recently—two separate fights, actually. He took down one of their lieutenants at a restaurant and then another, later, at the casino."
Lucas's eyes sharpened. "The Combine gang," he repeated, his tone cynical. "Vermin, every one of them. Not the types to back down easily. I know the sort. I imagine they didn't surrender without a fight?"
I gave a half-smile, shrugging. "They put up a decent fight. Well, the first one more than the second."
Alice's mother, Mara, finally joined the conversation, looking at me with a curious, almost skeptical expression. "So, you're a hero, fighting crime… putting yourself in danger." She tilted her head, her lips curling into a faint, enigmatic smile. "You must be quite the... capable man."
Her comment was strange, almost detached, like she was assessing me from afar rather than conversing. I felt her gaze linger, a faint challenge in her eyes, as if she was still determining whether she believed all this. The scrutiny was uncomfortable but familiar—I'd met people like her before, more interested in the idea of a person than in knowing who they really were.
"Yes, well," I answered, holding her gaze. "I do what's necessary."
Lucas interjected, his voice colder now, though with a hint of reluctant respect. "Well, perhaps it's a good thing you're with Alice. She needs someone who understands what kind of dangers exist out there." He looked at Alice briefly, softening. "I hope you'll keep her safe."
I nodded, giving him a reassuring look. "That's the plan."
The dinner ended without much fanfare—at least for me. The food was likely expensive, but it barely registered. My mind drifted, only half-listening to the small talk that continued around the table.
When it was over, Mara silently gestured for Alice and me to follow her down a hallway to what she called her gallery. The space was quiet, dimly lit, and filled with a scattered array of canvases in all shapes and sizes, like pieces of an unfinished puzzle. Each one was distinct from the next, as if Mara couldn't bring herself to replicate any concept or style. One canvas would feature bold strokes of color, a chaotic whirlpool of reds and blacks, while another would be serene and delicate, barely-there pastels. It felt less like an art collection and more like stepping into her private, fractured world.
Mara moved through the room slowly, pausing in front of each painting for only a moment before drifting to the next. She didn't offer any explanations, nor did she look back to see if we were even following. The silence between us was almost oppressive, her presence filling the space in a way that words couldn't.
Then, her phone vibrated, and she glanced at it briefly, not breaking her pace. A moment later, Alice's phone rang. She took it out, checked the screen, and her eyes widened. "It's Dad. I need to go," she murmured to me, her voice laced with urgency.
Before I could respond, she turned and left, leaving me alone with Mara and her strange, restless gallery.
As I took a cautious step toward Mara, intending to ask her about one of the paintings, she suddenly turned, pressing me back against the wall. Her movement was slow yet deliberate, her eyes narrowing as she studied me—or maybe not me, but something she imagined I represented.
Her face was close to mine, so close that I could feel her shallow breaths. Her gaze was unnerving, a blend of intensity and detachment, as if she were looking through me rather than at me. She leaned in closer, her lips hovering near mine. For a second, I thought she might try to kiss me, but something in her expression suggested a different intention. Confused, I put a hand to her mouth, stopping her from closing the distance. She didn't react as though I'd interrupted her; instead, she moved her head just slightly, bringing her face close to my neck.
Then she inhaled deeply, as though memorizing my scent.
A strange shiver ran down my spine as I processed her actions. I couldn't tell if this was meant to be seductive or if her mind was simply following some private, unspoken ritual. I stood still, unsure whether to break away or let her finish whatever she was doing, her movements remaining both unsettling and strangely enigmatic, teetering between intensity and something else I couldn't quite define.
I felt her tongue slide over my hand, the sensation startling me enough to pull it back. Her intensity was unnerving, a far cry from the strange games Sophie and I played—this was something else entirely.
Mara leaned in closer, pressing her lips to my neck, and I felt her tongue trace down to the collar of my shirt. A shiver ran through me as her cool touch lingered, making me tense up. I placed a hand on her chest, pushing her back gently but firmly, holding back any reaction that might betray just how uncomfortable I was.
She touched her lips, her gaze vacant, almost as if lost in a thought or reflex. I couldn't tell if it was an innocent gesture or something she wasn't even fully aware of.
"You're strange," she murmured, still studying me with that unsettling focus. "Not… human."
Her words hung in the air, a disquieting whisper that made the silence around us feel heavier. I swallowed, unsure whether to laugh it off or just leave, sensing that with Mara, neither response would make much difference.
I narrowed my eyes, trying to gauge her intentions. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She didn't answer, only kept that same intense stare that made me feel as though I were a specimen she held in her hand, turning over for closer inspection. Her gaze was unnervingly focused, her head tilted slightly as if studying something just beyond my skin.
I wiped her saliva off my neck, a flare of irritation bubbling up. "It's not normal to just lick someone you know," I muttered, my voice edged with a tension I couldn't hide.
But she ignored my words, a faint smile pulling at her lips as she leaned closer. "You're like a… toy. Unaged, kept in perfect condition. Untouched by time." Her eyes gleamed, and her hand reached out as though to touch my face again.
I grabbed her wrist before she could, holding it firm and pushing it away. Her strange fascination was getting under my skin, and I found myself feeling genuinely disturbed by her words, her look. "Who are you calling a toy?"
She just ran a finger slowly along her cheek, her eyes still locked on me with that detached fascination. It was like she was seeing right through me, considering something, maybe judging it—or maybe just playing with it.
"Your skin looks like a man's," she murmured, voice low and strange, "but it's waxed leather beneath." Her fingers brushed over my cheek, and she leaned in closer, inhaling. "You smell of myrrh… burned, ancient." What was she calling me? A mummy? Screw her.
I stiffened, but her scrutiny only grew more intense.
"Your eyes," she continued, her gaze locking onto mine, "they're more like glass than flesh. They catch the light, even from my own eyes. And when I look into them… it's like staring into a mirror."
She pressed me back against the wall again, her fingers trailing down my neck with unsettling familiarity, almost like she was trying to peel away something beneath. Her voice dropped to a whisper, each word deliberate.
"You have trouble feeling pain, don't you?"
I swallowed, caught between a sense of alarm and something darker—her eerie understanding, her gaze pinning me down like an insect on a board.
"So?" I demanded coldly. "What is that supposed to mean?"
She didn't answer, still lost in her strange, unblinking stare. Her lips parted as she whispered, "Won't you become mine?"
A chill ran down my spine, and before I knew it, I had her turned and pressed against the wall instead, my hand around her neck, trying to force some sense into her.
"What the hell?" I growled. "Do you want to get hurt?"
She didn't flinch, meeting my anger with that unsettling, almost fascinated expression. "You're so… interesting," she murmured, almost to herself. "I don't understand how something like you is alive."
I clenched my fist, feeling a wave of irritation and confusion. "You're really doing this to your daughter's partner?" I spat. "Or should I punch some sense into you?"
"Who?" she asked, tilting her head, as though "Alice" was a foreign word.
I raised her by the neck, expecting her to panic, gasp—something. But her eyes just widened with that same, eerie curiosity. My patience snapped.
"Alice!" I shouted her daughter's name, hoping it might break through whatever strange trance she was in, but her gaze remained unfocused, distant, as if the name meant nothing to her.
What in the world is wrong with this woman?
Was she actually retarded?
Realizing that I was on the edge of actually hurting her if I stayed in this state, I released her neck, letting her fall back against the wall. She didn't cry out, only stared up at me, her expression unfazed.
Without another word, I turned and stormed down the hall, heading in the direction Alice had gone. Right now, she was the only one I wanted to find.
I asked Emily if she could scout around the mansion, but she sighed through the phone's speaker.
"There are no cameras connected to the network here, and my GPS isn't precise enough to guide you around a building this size. Sorry."
Alice also didn't respond when I called her.
Great. Looked like I was on my own. Giving up on tech, I decided to search the place myself. With houses like this, you never know what's hiding behind the antique wallpaper or locked doors.
I reached up, feeling the weight of the golden necklace around my neck. Right—I still had it. The thing was heavier than it looked, and definitely wasn't comfortable. But if I was lucky, maybe it could help me locate Alice. She'd mentioned once or twice that her family's house had "hidden paths," though she didn't seem too serious about it.
With a deep breath, I headed down the hall, senses alert.
The fireplace drew my eye—silent and empty, without a log in sight. No surprise, considering it was summer. But I'd never really seen one up close.
When I was a kid, I used to watch this strange cartoon about a mouse who wielded a fireplace poker like a sword. A skinny rodent charging at cats, spiders, even snakes, using this iron rod like a knight. Looking back, it was a weird idea for a kid's show. Kind of violent, too, now that I thought about it.
Curious, I reached out and picked up the poker, feeling its weight. It was hefty, far too heavy to make a practical weapon. How did that cartoon mouse even lift it?
I let the poker drop with a dull clank that echoed through the quiet room, then continued on my way, trying to recall what Alice's father had said over dinner. Two guards, apparently, were hired to patrol the grounds on different shifts. Asking them could be an option… but then again, probably not worth it. They'd only complicate things.
The hallway led me to the kitchen—a vast, old-fashioned space designed to accommodate a small team of cooks. But only one woman was there, middle-aged and from Chou, her presence almost ghostly in the empty room. She looked up briefly, her expression polite but detached, and turned back to her work. She probably knew little of the universal dialect here in the Unified Kingdom. I nodded slightly to acknowledge her, then continued on.
I moved up to the second floor and began searching the rooms, starting with the guest bedrooms. The first three were almost identical, each carrying that impersonal, untouched look that only guest rooms have. One had a single bed, another two singles, and the last held a queen-sized bed. Everything was precisely arranged, clean and sterile. I could tell nothing in these rooms had been moved or lived in for quite some time—just the faint scent of lavender air freshener lingering, as though trying to mask the stillness.
Each step felt heavier as I continued down the hallway, wondering if I'd find any sign of Alice or any clue about her mother's strange behavior. The house had that eerie quietness to it, only broken by my footsteps echoing softly against the wooden floors.
The next room I entered was a large lounge, furnished with an eclectic mix of couches and armchairs scattered across the floor. But the real focal point was the collection of musical instruments—dozens of them, lined up in rows, resting on stands, or leaned against the walls. Each one was unique, from a grand piano to violins, cellos, guitars, a drum set, flutes, even a harp.
It was like wandering into an abandoned music shop, but with that same unsettling sense of order I'd noticed throughout the house. None of the instruments looked worn or even used; they sat as if on display rather than for practice. I remembered Alice mentioning her mother's constant shifts in interests—picking up hobbies and then abandoning them without a second thought. Music, apparently, had been one of them.
The room felt still, like a place caught between being lived in and completely forgotten. I ran my hand over the smooth wood of a cello, wondering if anyone had ever even heard a single note from it in this house. It was strange, to say the least.
And the next was smaller than the lounge but still spacious, dominated by a large, unfinished statue of a woman in the center. The figure had a haunting, half-formed quality, like she'd been abandoned mid-creation, her features softened and barely recognizable. There was something familiar in her face, a resemblance that hinted at Sarah, though I was probably reading too much into it. Around her were smaller sculptures, barely worked on or roughly shaped, as if Mara had started multiple projects and left them to gather dust.
One of the statues was covered with a heavy cloth, secured by a line tied around it. I went over and, with a strange sense of anticipation, untied it. The cloth slipped away, revealing—
Myself.
A perfect likeness carved in volcanic rock, dark and solid, with a fine dust lingering around its base, as though it had just been completed. Mara had given it glass eyes, each fitted with a silver pupil. Light caught in them, flashing in a way that made them look disturbingly alive, reflecting back at me with a gaze that felt almost sentient.
Her earlier words came back to me, about being like her "toy," an idea I'd dismissed outright. But now, staring at this stony, unaging version of myself, I felt a small chill creep into my mind. Sure, I hadn't aged physically, but those features are more likely for a ghoul or a litch, not some puppet. I couldn't be manipulated, right? Yet here, under the intensity of those silver pupils, the thought took on a different, uncomfortable angle.
Was I more of a puppet than a person, after all?
My thoughts scattered as the door creaked open behind me. I spun around, still stunned by the sight of my own stony likeness, to see Mara entering the room. She'd changed into a loose lace dress that clung to her curves—far more voluptuous than her daughter's figure, but any impression of allure was overshadowed by my confusion and growing anger. This was no time to be distracted.
"What is this?!" I demanded, unable to keep the heat from my face.
She halted, looking almost ethereal in the dim light, her skin pale and her eyes wide as they drifted over the statue and then to me. Slowly, she came closer, her expression one of haunting melancholy. "I saw you in a dream," she whispered. "You were… so very sad."
A chill worked its way up my spine as her words sank in. "What?!" I blurted, utterly at a loss for her meaning. How could she claim to have dreamed of me, to have seen me like this?
Her gaze remained steady, unblinking, as though searching for something within me. "I couldn't ignore it," she murmured. "You seemed more like a spirit than a person, frozen in time. So I sculpted you… hoping I could bring you peace."
For a moment, I was speechless, torn between anger and an unplaceable discomfort.
I... I'm not dead!" I snapped, gripping her throat before I could stop myself, my anger surging uncontrollably.
She just looked back at me with that eerie calm, almost as if she pitied me. "But can what you are living be called life?" she whispered, her voice unnervingly soft. My grip tightened as I glared at her, my rage sharp and blinding.
"What do you know, you-" I spat, unable to hide my contempt. "You're just a bitch who got old too early."
It's not like Alice informed me but it was obvious. This is a 40-year-old woman, kept in appearance at 30 probably due to her husband's efforts and treatments.
But Alice is 28! No matter how you put it her husband is a pedophile. And this hound? No wonder she is so twisted. At that age a girl's mind would be broken. And to become his eternal wife, a prisoner in a mansion even more so.
And she wants to judge me? To determine my own life? No.
She looked at me with that same gaze, pitying me. I wanted to kill her. I actually did.
I could feel my hand tightening around her neck.
Before I did an unforgivable crime, I used all my willpower to throw her into one of the unfinished sculpture, making her stumble to the ground. I sighed and arranged my shirt back.
"Where are Alice and your husband?
At the very least you should know that."
She didn't respond. I left before I hurt her even more.
After passing by two pristine bathrooms, I finally came to Alice's room. Everything was well-kept, as though waiting for her return, but something about it felt hauntingly sad.
Posters of superheroes covered every wall, vibrant and bold, each one a reminder of the youthful admiration she'd held for these figures. The ceiling was just as decorated, with a collage of heroes frozen in their legendary poses, looking down on the room like guardians. Bookshelves lined the far wall, packed with comic books and collections, figurines neatly arranged in rows as if still watched over by Alice herself.
It was clear that someone had kept the room clean and dusted, a quiet homage to her. Yet, despite the care, a hollow silence permeated the space. Perhaps it was because no one had lived here in years—she'd gone to college, moved on, and left this world of heroes behind. But the energy of her past dreams still clung to the air, giving the room a lingering, melancholic weight, as if it held memories longing to be reawakened.
In that stillness, I could almost sense a shadow of who she'd been, and it left me uneasy—a quiet sadness in a stagnant room.
I focused on the smell of antiseptic. I realized early that it wasn't equally spread out throughout the mansion. Above you could barely even feel it. This meant it had a source.
The faint antiseptic scent lingered in the air, sharper now that I focused on it. It wasn't as prevalent upstairs—only a subtle trace—but down here, closer to this specific hallway, the odor was unmistakably stronger. It had to be coming from somewhere nearby.
I asked Emily to monitor the concentration levels, and within moments, she confirmed that the antiseptic's source appeared strongest around a particular bookshelf in the hallway. The professor's recent upgrades to her platform had enhanced her ability to detect various substances, making something as common as antiseptic an easy find.
My eyes scanned the bookshelf, taking in its contents. Rows of volumes, mostly leather-bound and dusty, lined the shelves, and it seemed unremarkable at first glance. But now, knowing what Emily had pointed out, I realized I might have overlooked something here.
Curiosity piqued, I approached the shelf cautiously, my hand hovering over a row of books as I examined it more closely.
"Emily? Do you have any idea how to access this secret door?"
Another tool of the new platform was a laser scanner. With her computing power she calculated any edges that would give away a mechanism. I wonder what other systems the professor put into this device. I am sure there is some catch to it, something to control me in case he needs to. Probably a shut down button for Emily. But I don't fear it. It's not like I had any other options. Her former vessel was mostly useless.
"I am Analyzing now," Emily responded with a hint of eagerness. The laser scanner activated, sweeping over the bookshelf. "Give me a moment to identify any hidden edges or unusual patterns."
The hum of her calculations filled the silence as the red laser traced each spine, each gap between the books, and each panel of wood. After a few seconds, she spoke again.
"I think I've found something," she said. "See the third book from the left, in the second row? It has slightly irregular spacing behind it, unlike the others. The platform's scan suggests it's connected to a hidden hinge mechanism. Try pulling it out."
Following her guidance, I placed my fingers on the spine of the specified book and gave it a gentle tug. It's title was "The Vaccination Question" by Arthur Wollaston Hutton. I remember this text. It is a very funny choice, because the author is against vaccines. It was written back in the days of the smallpox epidemics In the times before the current coronation.
The metal clinks subsided as the wall finished its transformation, revealing a narrow stone staircase leading downward. Shadows stretched and shifted as I shone the phone's torch down the steps, casting a stark, cold light on the damp, ancient stones. I could feel the coolness of the underground air as I descended, the scent of antiseptic growing stronger with each step.
"Fascinating," Emily murmured, her voice carrying a tinge of curiosity. "The architecture here suggests this was meant to be hidden for a long time. The way it was concealed... very clever. But why all the antiseptic?"
"I guess we'll find out soon enough," I replied, keeping my voice low.
"Be careful," she advised, as her digital gaze, through the camera lens, roamed the edges of the stairs and walls. "Honest men wouldn't go through such lengths to protect their secrets.
The staircase spiraled down, narrowing as it went. The faint sound of something mechanical clicked somewhere below. It felt like the walls were closing in, forcing me to crouch slightly to avoid scraping my head on the low ceiling.-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*