the front gates groan as they unlock for the first time in years, metal shaking like it’s remembering something it wants to forget. warning lights flicker weakly along the walls, half-dead but still trying to function. the air smells stale… like something sealed off too long.

a lone figure steps forward through the broken checkpoint doors. their boots hit the floor with a dull echo that carries deeper into the facility than it should.

...so they actually reopened it.

the voice is low, cautious. they pause just inside the entryway, looking up at the lobby that once felt controlled—now stripped, dim, and wrong. flickering monitors show corrupted feeds, looping static, and fragments of old warning messages.

somewhere far inside the building, a metal clang echoes. then another. slower… deliberate.

the figure turns slightly, hand brushing the wall where faded signage reads: FACILITY OF REDEMPTION — ACCESS RESTRICTED

i was here before all of this… before they sealed it shut.

a distant alarm suddenly stutters on—then dies halfway through. not a system reboot… more like something inside stopped it.

a soft dragging sound comes from one of the side hallways.

the figure goes still.

…no way they cleaned this place out.

the lights above flicker once.

twice.

and then hold steady just long enough to show movement deeper in the corridor—something watching from the dark, not rushing… waiting.