The lights were gone.
A hard, suffocating darkness pressed in from all sides, swallowing the corridor in absolute silence.
Layla froze.
"Adrian?" she whispered.
No answer.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She reached out blindly, her fingers grazing cold concrete, air heavy with dust and something else—something metallic. She blinked rapidly, willing her eyes to adjust. Nothing. Not even a sliver of light.
She tried again, louder. "Adrian—"
"I'm here." His voice came from her left—closer than she expected. Calm. Controlled. "Stay still."
A soft click, then the flare of a small flashlight cut through the dark, casting long, jagged shadows across the corridor.
He turned toward her, face hard, jaw clenched. "This isn't an accident."
Layla's voice was low. "You think someone's here?"
Adrian didn't answer. He swept the light across the hallway again. At the far end, the red security light was still blinking.
Then it stopped.
A tiny noise—like the whine of a power-down.
Adrian's grip on the flashlight tightened. "They've killed the backup system."
Layla took a step closer. "Who are you?"
He looked at her, the flashlight's glow casting sharp lines across his face. "Someone who's been trying to dismantle this for years."
"This… what?"
"Blackwell & Creed. The Blackwood legacy. The rot beneath the surface. Your file in that room? It means they've started tracking you. You're not invisible anymore."
"I never wanted to be invisible," Layla said, voice tight.
"But you needed to be." He started walking again, slower now. More alert. "The deeper you go, the less mercy they have."
Layla's eyes snapped to him. "What does this have to do with my parents?"
Adrian didn't look at her. "Everything."
They reached the locked room. Adrian moved to the keypad. His fingers moved fast—confident. He wasn't guessing.
He knew the code.
The lock clicked open.
Inside, the room smelled of stale coffee, toner ink, and secrets. The hum of dormant electronics surrounded them.
Layla went straight to the desk where she'd seen her file. She grabbed it, flipping it open.
Her school records.
Medical history.
Photos.
Emails she'd thought were deleted.
Notes in handwriting she didn't recognize. Phrases like "unmonitored window" and "potential asset or threat."
Adrian stood behind her, watching her process the invasion. "You were flagged when you started looking into your birth records. They don't like loose ends."
Layla turned, file still in hand. "So what am I now—bait? Leverage?"
His expression darkened. "You're something they didn't account for. And that terrifies them."
A metallic clang echoed through the hall outside.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Adrian crossed to the doorway and turned off the flashlight. They stood still in the dark again, the tension so thick it was hard to breathe.
The footsteps stopped.
Then, a voice—mechanical, distorted, echoing through the intercom system.
"Miss James. Mr. Blackwood. We'd prefer if you didn't dig any deeper."
Layla's blood turned cold.
Adrian whispered, "They know we're here."
She whispered back, "What now?"
His voice was steady, dangerous. "Now? We disappear."
He grabbed her hand, and they ran—through the shadows, through the silence, with the weight of the truth crashing down behind them.
And as they fled into the dark, one thing was suddenly, horrifyingly clear:
This wasn't just about revenge anymore.
It was war.