Dirty Secrets

Chapter 3

The digital route map buzzes quietly in my hand.

Standard loop. Standard times.

Except one hallway (19D) blinks yellow. “Temporarily Restricted.” No one else on shift. No assignment tag. Just… me.

Terry didn’t mention it. The system didn’t alert. I should skip it.

But I don’t.

I push the mop cart down the corridor, wheels humming too loud in the hush. The air on 19D tastes different, filtered sharper, almost metallic.

Overhead, the light glitches. Just once. Then again.

I pause near Room 1943.

There it is. A streak. Dark, fresh, too clean to ignore. Blood against ivory tile.

No emergency marker. No cleanup request. Just silence.

I crouch. Pull a rag from my back pocket.

My hand hesitates. Just a second.

Then I start wiping. Small circles. Gentle pressure. A movement I’ve done a thousand times before.

But this stain? This one feels like it’s watching me back.

And I clean it anyway.

FLASHBACK: DESERT CORRIDOR

The hall was all sand-dust and iron heat, the kind that clings to your teeth when you breathe too hard. Blood painted a path across cracked concrete. Too much for one man.

“Thorn…” the soldier rasped behind me. His voice thick with iron. “Don’t… leave anything behind…”

I gripped his collar tighter, dragging him backward through the hallway as bullets cracked in the distance.

“Copy that,” I muttered, but my boots were already slipping. Red smeared the soles.

PRESENT: HALBERD, FLOOR 19D

The rag in my hand is soaked now. Dark. Heavier than it should be.

I squeeze it once. Blood seeps through the glove, warmth against skin. Not old blood. Not imagined.

The mop bucket handle creaks as I drop it in.

I stare at it too long.

Then I pivot to the wall chute, open the incinerator hatch…

And throw the rag inside.

No scan. No log.

No trace.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime.

Vanessa Harrow steps out first. Immaculate in heels that don't echo, flanked by two men in charcoal suits too expensive for their faces.

She halts mid-stride, just for a breath, when she spots me at the end of the hall, kneeling by my cart.

I don’t move. Don’t blink.

Our eyes meet.

Just half a second.

Her gaze is unreadable. Cool, calculating, polished glass.

Then she turns. Keeps walking.

No smile. No nod. Just… silence, like I was never there.

One of the execs glances back, voice low, smirking like it’s a joke he’s told before.

“That’s the old one, right? The ghost janitor?”

They disappear around the corner.

I dip the mop back in the bucket, let it drip once, then press it to the floor.

I don’t react.

Not outwardly.

But part of me hears the word echo louder than it should: Ghost.

The utility terminal hums faintly, its glow washing over my hands like hospital light.

I pull up the custodial report system, fingers moving with practiced speed.

Room 1943. No entry. No timestamp. No incident tag. Just a blank space.

Unassigned.

I frown.

I manually log the entry: Blood cleanup. Source unknown. Request report archive.

The cursor blinks.

Then…

ACCESS DENIED

ACCESS FORBIDDEN

LEVEL 6 CLASSIFIED

“Level 6?”

No janitor clearance goes past Level 3. Not even Domo’s.

I lean back slowly, eyes on the screen like it might explain itself.

It doesn’t.

I log out, shut the terminal down.

Then I reach into my back pocket, pull out a black Sharpie.

Room 1943.

I write the numbers across my left palm. Bold. Permanent.

It smears slightly from the sweat.

I don’t wipe it.

Some things aren’t supposed to be erased.

Not anymore.

Terry’s balancing two cups of burnt vending-machine coffee when he passes by the loading bay. “Hey,” he says mid-sip, “what’s that on your hand?”

I close my fingers over my palm instinctively.

“Nothing.”

He raises a brow. “Nothing usually gets written in marker.”

“Just a reminder.”

Terry shrugs. “Cool, cool. Hey, guess what’s canceled again?”

I follow his nod to the wall beside the elevator.

A flyer hangs crookedly from a single tack.

“Employee Recognition Day: POSTPONED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE”

He mutters, “Third time this quarter. Guess no one’s earned being seen.”

I move closer. The bottom of the flyer is torn. But something’s been scrawled across the HR rep’s name in red ballpoint:

OBEY.

I stare at it a beat too long.

The ink’s still fresh. Letters scratched like someone did it fast, urgently.

Terry chuckles behind me. “Creepy, right?”

I don’t answer.

Because part of me agrees.

But another part remembers that handwriting.

The underground breakroom smells like cheap spaghetti and burned popcorn. The fluorescent lights flicker like they’re on a dying heart monitor.

I sit in the corner. Same seat, same routine. Fork pushing rice like it’s a minefield.

Jojo slides into the seat across from me with her tray, sunglasses still on indoors. Pink boba cup in hand.

“You know they’re watching us, right?” she says between bites of cold dumplings.

I don’t look up. “They always were.”

“No,” she leans in, whispering dramatically, “I mean literally. The microwave asked for my ID this morning.”

I finally glance at her.

She nods seriously. “It lit up. Said ‘Joana Ramirez, insufficient clearance for heat access.’ Like I needed top secret permission to reheat my noodles.”

I stare at her for a beat.

She sips her drink, deadpan. “I think it’s possessed. Or union-busting.”

My lips twitch. Almost a smile.

Almost.

But behind her, the CCTV light blinks red.

And doesn’t stop.

The hallway to Room 1943 feels colder this time. Like the air’s been filtered differently. Sterile, but not clean.

I walk slower. Push the cart quietly, like I might wake something up.

Room 1943 is no longer just a door.

Now, it’s sealed.

Steel frame reinforced. A digital keypad glows beside it, humming faintly.

I stop in front of it. Stare at the screen.

It flickers once. Glitches. Then stabilizes.

“WELCOME BACK.”

The words appear in soft blue, like a friend trying not to startle you.

They vanish as fast as they came.

I raise my hand. Hover over the panel.

Touch.

Zzt.

A mild shock pulses through my fingertip. Nothing dangerous. Just enough to bite.

I step back.

My finger throbs, the nerves waking up.

It wasn’t trying to keep me out.

Not really.

It was saying hello.

In the only language this place remembers.

The server alcove is tucked behind a false panel on Floor 14. Low access traffic, dim lighting, and cables humming like nerves.

I push the cart past the junction box when I hear a faint click. Plastic against metal. Then silence.

I step inside.

She’s crouched by the central relay. One hand grips a wireless node, the other clutches a small utility knife.

Riley Chen.

She startles. Straightens.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says.

“Neither are you.”

We stare at each other. Her breath is uneven. Mine is steady, out of habit, not peace.

She stands slowly. “Did you see the stain too?”

I don’t answer.

She watches me like she already knows. Or like she’s afraid she does.

Then, soft. Like the truth’s been caught in her throat all day:

“You used to be someone else, didn’t you?”

The server light blinks between us.

Green. Red. Green.

Neither of us moves.

FLASHBACK: UNKNOWN BASE, NIGHT

The flames curled inside the steel barrel like quiet fingers.

A young version of me stood still, the cold biting through desert gear. I watched the edge of the dossier curl black and vanish, page by page.

The mission logs. The photographs. The names.

All swallowed by fire.

Dog tags dangled from my fingers. One set was mine.

The other... hers.

I didn’t let go of either.

PRESENT: HALBERD CORP, CLOSET

The apple core in my hand is down to the stem. Browned, soft, pulpy at the edges. I drop it into the chemical waste bin.

It doesn’t just sit.

It fizzes. Dissolves.

Gone in seconds. Like it was never real.

I stare until it’s silent again. Until the bin resets.

Then, uninvited and familiar, the thought comes: “Nothing stays erased. It just hides.”

I tighten the lid.

And walk out before the thought can speak again.

I open the hatch to the building’s recycling chute, expecting empty dark or maybe a few shredded memos.

But something’s caught in the lip of the metal frame.

Wet. Familiar.

A rag.

The rag.

Same cut. Same grime. Same faint streak of blood I scrubbed clean from Floor 19D.

It should’ve burned. I fed it to fire myself.

I reach in and pull it free. It’s cold now. Damp with chemicals, but intact. Untouched by flame.

My stomach tightens.

I unfold it slowly. Something flutters out and lands on the ground.

Paper. Just a sliver.

I pick it up.

Edges charred, half a seal still visible. But the ink…

Clear. Bold.

OPERATOR: THORN-071

My fingers tighten.

That code hasn’t existed in years.

I buried it. Burned it.

And yet, it’s here.

Folded neatly inside something I was sure no longer existed.

Like a message. From someone who remembers me.

Even when I don’t.

Back in the janitor closet, the lights flicker overhead like they’re thinking.

I slide the sliver of dossier under my scanner.

No name. No ID. Just a fragment.

But I know where to look.

I tap the corner of my personal blacklight app: buried beneath four false layers of inventory software.

The screen hums. Blue fluorescence spreads like bruises across the page.

Hidden ink bleeds into focus: “HE LIVES. ROOM 1943.”

I stare at it. Not blinking. Not breathing.

I’m already halfway down the hall before I realize I’m moving.

Room 1943.

Again.

The corridor is silent. Same digital lock. Same faint hum.

But something new.

A single fingerprint smudged on the glass.

Fresh.

I swipe it with my portable reader, an old ops tool disguised as a bar scanner.

It beeps.

MATCH: IDENTIFIED.

NAME: [REDACTED]

STATUS: DECEASED

YEAR OF DEATH: 2018.

My chest tightens.

I knew him.

I watched him die.

So who the hell is in that room?

The stairwell is dead silent at this hour.

Just concrete, steel rails, and the faint buzz of Halberd’s nervous system humming behind the walls.

I sit two steps from the landing, the door cracked open just enough to let the city breathe in. The skyline flickers in glass reflections—too far away to touch, too close to ignore.

A cigarette burns between my fingers. I don’t even smoke anymore.

But I lit it anyway.

For the ritual. For the memory.

FLASHBACK

Night. Storm. Gunfire in the distance.

A young voice: “If anything happens… you finish the mission. Promise me.”

Me: “Always. No one gets left behind.”

We shake on it.

Then the world burns.

PRESENT

Smoke curls around my face, soft as regret.

I speak, not sure to who.

Maybe the ghost. Maybe the building.

Maybe the part of myself I thought I buried.

“You’re still here, aren’t you?”

The ember glows once. Then fades.

Back in the closet, the monitor bathes the room in sterile light. My route map blinks quietly—white grids and hallway names.

I select Room 1943.

DELETE ENTRY?

The prompt pulses.

I click yes.

It vanishes without resistance. Like it never existed.

But I still see it.

I pull a worn sheet of folded grid paper from the back of my notebook. Use a fine black pen.

Lines. Walls. Corners. Door. The exact position of the lock panel. The number etched into the floor tile.

Room 1943.

Hand-drawn. Remembered.

I fold it twice. Slip it into the inside of my boot, between the lining and sole.

Then I tape the red mop handle to the underside of the janitor cart. Not visible. Not forgotten.

I roll the cart out.

Above, a dome cam tilts. Its red eye follows me down the hall.

From the speaker:

“Reboot sequence initiated.”

Pause. Static hisses.

“Subject active.”

And I keep walking.