The alarms weren’t loud at first.
They began as a low, almost polite pulse—like the house itself was clearing its throat before screaming. Red lights bled into the corridors one by one, washing the glass walls in warning.
Director Hale turned sharply, all ease evaporating.
“What did you do?” he demanded again.
I didn’t answer.
Because this wasn’t the moment for explanations.
It was the moment for observation.
People like Hale didn’t panic easily. They were trained not to. But control was their oxygen, and the instant it vanished, something ugly always surfaced.
He moved fast, reaching for an earpiece, fingers sharp with irritation.
“Status,” he snapped.
Static answered him.
Not interference.
Isolation.
His eyes flicked to me, calculation replacing anger. “You didn’t come alone
