The air tasted of antiseptic and something older — something metallic, like copper left to oxidize behind the walls. The linoleum floor stretched ahead, gleaming under those dying bulbs, each scuff mark a fossil of someone else's panic.

A clipboard hung from a hook outside Room 7. The paper was worn thin at the edges, fingerprints darkening the corners.

The lights flickered again. This time, the dark lasted a beat longer.

When they came back on, the corridor was empty. But the door at the far end was open.