Fluorescent lights stuttered overhead in a dying rhythm—flicker, flicker, dark—buzzing like trapped wasps. Half the bulbs were dead entirely, leaving long corridors of rust-stained concrete swallowed by shadow.

Water dripped somewhere. Steady. Patient. The kind of sound that made an empty structure feel like it was breathing.

Y/n had walked this way before. Cut the walk home down to twelve minutes instead of twenty. On a normal night, that mattered. On a normal night, the worst thing in the Erie was the smell of stale exhaust and old piss.

The stairwell at the corner of Fifth smelled like both.

Rusted pipes ran along the ceiling and the walls, weeping condensation in thin dark streaks down painted lines that had faded years ago. A security camera dangled from its mount on the far wall, angled toward the ground. A red light blinked next to the lens. Maybe it worked. Maybe it was just wired to nothing.

Y/n's footsteps bounced off the concrete and came back a half-second late, like someone else was walking just behind her.

Level three. The echo changes here.

A sound cuts through the drip. A voice. Low. Wrong. Two voices, layered over each other, one of them tight and pleading, the other flat and unhurried.

Something scrapes across the concrete floor. Metallic. Sharp.

The sound is close enough to feel through the soles of cheap shoes.

Around the concrete pillar ahead, past the flickering yellow light of a garage sign, there's an opening between two rows of empty parking bays. Y/n can see them from here if she stops at the right angle. Just a sliver of the scene. Just enough.

Two men. Completely in black. Same black balaclavas, same gloves, same boots. The taller of the two has one knee planted against a third man's chest—someone in a rumpled gray suit, his face already bloodied, one hand raised weakly as if it could stop anything.

The taller masked man shows no urgency at all. He looks almost bored. The knife in his hand is short and black, and it doesn't shake.

The other masked man crouches nearby, rummaging through the gray-suited man's briefcase with quick, methodical hands. Pulling out envelopes. A phone. A small black drive.

A wet, gurgling breath escapes the man on the ground. The taller masked man tilts his head slightly, considering him.

Y/n's weight shifts on the concrete.

A tiny scuff. Barely a sound.

Both masked heads turn.

The crouched one is already on his feet. The taller one doesn't move at all—just watches. The yellow garage light flickers once, twice, and settles.

There's nowhere between the pillar and the stairwell to hide. Nowhere to stand still. Nothing to do but run.