The air in the chamber tasted like rust and static, a metallic tang that clung to the back of her throat. Mara pressed her palms against the cold steel table, feeling the hum of unseen machinery beneath her skin. The lights above flickered, casting jagged shadows across the room. She had no memory of how she got here, only that the man in the white coat had said this was for her own good.
“You’re ready,” he said, his voice calm, too calm. He adjusted the straps on her wrists, the leather stiff and unfamiliar. Mara didn’t flinch. She’d learned not to show fear. The last time she’d screamed, they’d given her a dose of something that made her bones feel like glass.
The machine whirred to life. A low, resonant tone filled the room, vibrating in her teeth. Mara closed her eyes. She didn’t know what they were trying to extract—memories? Fear? Something worse? The walls pulsed faintly, as if the facility itself was breathing.
“You’ll remember,” the man said, but his words felt distant, like they were spoken through water. “You’ll remember everything.”
Mara’s vision blurred. Shapes formed in the darkness behind her eyelids—faces, places, a sound she couldn’t name. A child’s laugh. The scent of burning paper. A door slamming shut. Her pulse quickened. She tried to speak, but her mouth wouldn’t obey.
“It’s working,” the man murmured. “She’s accessing the files.”
Mara’s thoughts unraveled. She saw a room filled with monitors, each displaying the same image: a woman with dark hair and hollow eyes, lying on a table just like this one. The woman’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Mara tried to reach her, but her arms were pinned, heavy as lead.
“What is this?” she wanted to ask, but the words dissolved.
The machine’s tone deepened, a growl that made her ribs ache. Mara’s vision went black. When she opened her eyes, the man was gone. The table was empty. Her wrists were free.
She stood, her legs unsteady, and stepped toward the door. It was ajar, a sliver of light cutting through the darkness. Mara hesitated. The air smelled different now—cleaner, sharper. She pushed it open.
The corridor beyond was long and sterile, lined with identical doors. A faint hum echoed from somewhere deep within the building. Mara moved forward, her boots clicking against the floor. She didn’t know where she was, but she knew one thing: this wasn’t the first time she’d been here.
A voice crackled through an overhead speaker. “Subject 17. You’ve accessed restricted files. Do not proceed.”
Mara froze. The voice was hers. Or at least, it sounded like it. She turned, but the corridor stretched endlessly in both directions.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice trembling.
“You do,” the voice replied. “You always have.”
Mara’s breath came fast and shallow. The walls seemed to close in, the light from the door dimming. She ran, her feet pounding against the floor, but the corridor never ended.
Then she heard it: a sound like a heartbeat, steady and loud. It wasn’t coming from her. It was coming from the walls.
Mara stopped. The sound grew louder, vibrating in her chest. She pressed her hand to the nearest wall. It was warm. Alive.
“Who’s there?” she demanded.
No answer. Only the heartbeat.
She backed away, her pulse matching the rhythm. The door behind her slammed shut. The corridor went dark.
Mara turned and ran again, but this time, the walls were different. They shimmered, as if made of liquid glass. Shapes moved within them—figures, faces, hands reaching out. She stumbled, falling to her knees.
“Help me,” she whispered.
The figures didn’t respond. They just watched, their eyes empty, their mouths open in silent screams.
Mara crawled forward, her hands scraping against the floor. The heartbeat was louder now, a thunderous roar. She reached the end of the corridor and found a door marked with a single word: “Exit.”
She pushed it open.
The world outside was bright, too bright. Sunlight blazed through a cracked window, illuminating a room filled with shattered equipment. Mara’s breath caught. This wasn’t a lab. It was a storage facility. A junkyard.
She stood, her legs weak, and stepped into the light. The air smelled of ozone and dust. Somewhere in the distance, a bird screeched.
Mara turned back toward the door. It was gone. The corridor had vanished, replaced by a wall of concrete.
“Where am I?” she asked, but no one answered.
The sun beat down on her, and for the first time, she felt something other than fear. Curiosity.
She walked forward, toward the horizon, where the sky met the earth in a line of fire.
