Finian's knuckles were white as he gripped the crowbar, his boots clicking softly against the linoleum. He followed the sound, rounding a corner into the communal washrooms. Two mirrors hung above the sinks; one was a jagged spiderweb of silver shards, the other was pristine.
So, the noise came from here, he thought.
He leaned toward the intact mirror to investigate, but a dark shape suddenly lunged at him. Finian recoiled, stumbling back until his shoulders hit the stalls. His heart hammered against his ribs before reality caught up—it was just his own reflection.
He let out a shaky breath, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. "Good thing no one saw that," he muttered. "If Ron were here, he'd tease me until my last breath."
Straightening his jacket, he looked around the derelict room. "Where the hell is this so-called 'Smart Prison'?"
Finian exited the washroom and turned right into a narrow hallway. A faded sign hung crookedly on the wall: HEART OPERATION SECTOR.
The air grew colder. He passed open wards where rusted beds and skeletal machines sat like graveyard monuments.
What really happened here? He thought while passing through.
At the end of the hall, he reached a stairwell that spiraled both up and down. A hand-painted sign pointed toward the darkness below: BODIES.
"Right. The basement. Figures," Finian whispered.
He brushed past another door with a damaged placard—F—ER PERSONEEL ONLY—and descended into the gut of the building.
The basement was a labyrinth of refrigerated lockers meant for the dead. He gripped his crowbar tighter, the silence pressing against his ears.
The hallway stretched on, branching into the deeper wings of the hospital. Finian found a secondary set of stairs leading further down. He took a deep breath. "Ellen, take care of yourself."
He took a step, but his foot hit something slick.
His legs went out from under him. Finian tumbled, a chaotic blur of concrete and pain, until he slammed into the wall at the base of the stairs.
"...Ouch! Why did I slip?" He groaned, clutching his lower back.
When he stood up, he realized he was trapped. It was a dead end—just a few feet of empty space facing a blank wall.
"What? A dead end? I thought I'd see something mystical... something beyond imagination."
Frustrated, he turned back to the stairs. His eyes widened. Every step he had just tumbled down was coated in fresh, shimmering blood.
He looked at his hands. The crowbar was slick with it, too.
I slipped on blood. Something happened here... just moments before I arrived. He thought.
"Where is this place? Come on, someone help me out here," he called out to the empty dark.
He turned back to the dead end, refusing to believe it was a mistake. He knocked on the stones, pressed his ear to the wall, and even punched the masonry. Nothing.
"Come on, Locki, where are you?" He said.
Exhausted, Finian leaned his weight against the wall, propping himself up with the hand holding the crowbar.
He fished his phone out of his pocket. No Signal. He waved the device in the air, desperately searching for a single bar of service. As he twisted his body, his hand slipped against a hidden groove in the wall.
A heavy, mechanical clack echoed through the stairwell.
Finian froze, then a grin spread across his face. "So, that's how it is."
He placed both hands on the wall and pushed, mimicking a rotating motion. The heavy stone slab groaned and began to pivot like a massive, vertical ball. He dropped the crowbar to use his strength, and the wall swung open, revealing a passage just wide enough for a man to pass.
Finian retrieved his tool and stepped through. His breath caught. The crowbar in his hand trembled slightly.
I don't fear ghosts. He kept repeating in his mind.
He was standing on a high ledge. Feet below him, a vast cavern was filled with a strange, glowing liquid that simmered with an unnatural energy. In the center of the cavern sat a jagged, mountain-like structure carved with rows of prison cells. The bars didn't look like steel; they hummed with blue electricity.
Is this the Smart Prison? He thought.
There were no bridges. The gap between his ledge and the cells was far too wide to jump. Finian concentrated, trying to summon his power to close the distance, but he felt nothing. The spark within him was cold.
I can't use my powers? He thought.
Panic flared for a second, then realization set in. It really was built for powers. A cage that nullifies everything… or perhaps absorbs it. He thought.
To his right, a massive, futuristic spire rose from the depths. The Watchtower.
As he approached the structure, a seamless door slid open with a hiss. Finian stepped inside to find a row of advanced robots, their chassis sleek and white, currently slumped in "Power Down" mode. One had the word Chef etched into its head.
Why is it so empty? It looks like they just... like they were abandoned mid-operation.
He stepped into a sleek lift at the back of the room. There was only one button: T.
He pressed it. The lift shuddered, shifting laterally before beginning a smooth descent. "Changing routes," he noted, his heart racing.
A half-minute later, the doors slid open. Finian stepped out, his eyes widening at the sight of pristine chrome, glowing monitors, and rows of glass vats. Somehow, that was worse than the prison.
"A laboratory…"
His voice barely rose above a whisper.