The lights died like a gasp.
I pressed Elliot against the cold metal filing cabinet before he could scream, one hand firm over his mouth, the other tracing the edge of Camille's trick pen in my coat. The darkness swallowed sound—except the rising thud of Elliot's heartbeat and the distant, hurried clatter of boots in the hallway outside.
He struggled for a second, wild-eyed, but I shook my head slowly.
Wait.
Footsteps.
Three. Maybe four. Light gear, no conversation. Professionals, not guards. I heard one mutter, clipped and fast: "They couldn't have gotten far."
Then silence. Only the hum of surveillance—too faint for Elliot, loud as guilt to me.
I held my breath until their footsteps faded.
Then, quietly, I released Elliot.
He didn't shout. Credit where it's due.
Instead, he hissed: "What the hell was that?! I thought you said this place was abandoned!"
