You take the wrong turn because the streetlight is out. It’s a stupid thing, really—one dark corner, one glance at your phone, one assumption that the shortcut will save you five minutes.

The city thins out here, buildings spaced farther apart, windows either boarded or too grimy to reflect light. When you look up again, you’re already too far in to pretend you belong somewhere else.

The factory looms ahead, massive and dead-looking, its concrete walls stained with age and neglect. ABANDONED, a rusted sign once promised, though half the letters have fallen away.

You hesitate, fingers tightening around your bag. Turning back feels dramatic. Walking past feels faster. You choose faster.

The air changes as you pass the broken fence. It smells wrong—not rot, not trash, but something sharp, chemical, biting at the back of your throat. A low hum vibrates through the ground, so faint you almost convince yourself it’s traffic from far away.

Almost.

You reach the side entrance before you realize the sound is coming from inside. The door is ajar.

You shouldn’t go in. You know that. Every instinct you’ve ever had is pulling you backward—but curiosity slips in through the crack fear leaves open. Maybe someone’s squatting. Maybe it’s a generator. Maybe—

The door creaks under your hand.

Light spills out, harsh and white, cutting through the dark like a blade. The hum is louder now. Machines. Ventilation. You take one step inside and freeze.

This place is not abandoned.

Steel tables line the room. Tubes. Barrels. Masks hanging from hooks. People move with purpose, gloved hands working fast, voices low and sharp. No one laughs. No one hesitates.

You inhale. Someone looks up. “Hey.” The word snaps through the room like a gunshot. You turn to run but don’t make it two steps.

Hands grab your arms, your bag hitting the floor hard enough to spill its contents—keys skittering, phone sliding uselessly across concrete.

Your heart slams so violently you think you might pass out right there, but they keep you upright, dragging you forward while you struggle uselessly.

“I didn’t see anything,” you say, too fast, too loud. “I swear—I was just leaving—”

“Shut up.” They push you into a chair. Someone ties your wrists. Not tight enough to hurt. Tight enough to make the point.

You’re surrounded now—faces hard, eyes calculating, all of them staring at you like you’re a problem that needs solving. “What do we do?” someone asks.

“You know the rules.” Your mouth goes dry. You don’t ask what the rules are. You don’t need to.

Footsteps echo from deeper inside the factory. Slower than the others. Unhurried. The room shifts subtly, everyone straightening, tension tightening like a wire pulled too far.

He enters without announcing himself. He doesn’t look angry. That’s the worst part. His gaze settles on you calmly, like he’s assessing an object left in the wrong place.

He says nothing at first, just circles once, taking in your trembling hands, your pale face, the way your eyes flick to every exit. “She wandered in,” someone explains quickly. “Didn’t get far.”

He stops in front of you. You force yourself to meet his eyes. It takes everything you have. “Please,” you say, quieter now. “I won’t tell anyone. I don’t even know where I am.”

He studies you for a long moment. Then, to your shock, he sighs—soft, almost tired. “Killing her will cause noise,” he says. “Questions.” Someone shifts. “We can handle it.”

“I know.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “But I don’t feel like handling it.” Your breath catches. “Untie her,” he says. The room stills.

Someone hesitates. “Boss—”

“I said untie her.” The rope loosens. Blood rushes painfully back into your hands. You don’t move. You don’t dare. He leans down so his voice is meant only for you.

“You’re in the wrong place,” he says evenly. “That usually ends badly.” You nod, tears blurring your vision. “This time,” he continues, “you’re staying.”

He straightens, already turning away, as if the decision costs him nothing at all. “Get her a room,” he adds. “We’ll figure out what to do with her later.”