Krane drifted silently behind Braken, the beam of his torch slicing through the shadows. The light glanced off shattered glass and twisted metal, painting warped shapes across the sterile walls. An oppressive silence settled over us as we entered the room’s far end—where a cold, metallic table stood, its surface smeared with dark stains.
We stopped. No one spoke. The air itself felt like it had turned to lead.
“Braken…” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “W…what is that?” He didn’t answer. It was Calian who responded, his voice low, as if afraid to disturb the ghosts lingering in this place.
“A restraint bed. They used them to stop patients from moving—or from hurting others,” he explained grimly. “It’s old. I’ve only ever seen one in a history archive.” A chill rippled through me.
