The air in the sublevel corridor tasted metallic, like rusted pipes and static. Dr. Elara Voss pressed her palm against the steel door, feeling the faint vibration of something alive beneath the surface. The vault had been sealed for thirty years, but the hum in her bones said it was still breathing. She turned to Dr. Marcus Hale, whose jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the biometric scanner. “This isn’t protocol,” he said, voice low. “We’re not here for protocol,” Elara replied, fingers hovering over the scanner. The light turned green. The door groaned open, releasing a breath of cold that smelled of old paper and ozone. Inside, the chamber was a cathedral of obsidian and chrome, its walls etched with symbols that shifted when she blinked. At the center stood the artifact: a black sphere, smooth as liquid, pulsing with a faint iridescence. Elara stepped closer. The air thickened, pressing against her skin like a second layer. “It’s not a device,” Marcus said, voice strained. “It’s a… container.” The sphere’s surface rippled, and for a heartbeat, Elara saw something in it—shadows moving, shapes that weren’t meant to exist. Then it stilled. She reached out, fingertips grazing the surface. A shock surged through her, not physical but visceral, as if her thoughts had been plucked from her skull and rewritten. The symbols on the walls flared bright, then died. Silence. Marcus staggered back. “What the hell was that?” Elara didn’t answer. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out his voice. The artifact was watching her. Or maybe it had always been watching. She turned to him, lips dry. “We need to document this.” “We need to shut it down,” he snapped. “You don’t understand—” “I understand perfectly,” Marcus interrupted, jaw clenched. “This isn’t research. It’s a goddamn trap.” The lights flickered. The sphere pulsed again, slower now, like a heartbeat. Elara felt it in her teeth. “It’s not a trap,” she said, voice steady. “It’s a question.” The door slammed shut behind them. The vault was no longer empty.
