Ziana doesn’t move for a moment, her back pressed against the cool wall beside the door. Her fingers tighten around the handle of the knife, the metal biting into her palm.
The chuckle echoes faintly again, closer this time, the sound dripping with malice.
Her heart pounds against her ribs as she steps silently toward the door. She places her hand on the knob, hesitating. Whoever—or *whatever*—is out there isn’t looking for a friendly chat.
She steels herself, her voice low but firm. “You’re messing with the wrong person.”
With a sharp breath, Ziana yanks the door open, her knife raised.
The hallway stretches out before her, bathed in the dim glow of emergency lights. It’s empty.
Her eyes scan every corner, every shadow, her ears straining for the slightest sound. Nothing
