The Directorate Headquarters loomed around him, a fortress of marble and steel. Callen's boots echoed lightly against the polished floors, but to his ears, it was deafening — every whisper, every shuffle, every distant footstep felt amplified. He tried to focus, tried to ground himself, but the tension coiled tight in his chest.
Arven led the way, his long coat brushing the floor. Callen couldn't read the senior investigator's expression — calm, controlled, as if he already knew what awaited them. How can someone move like that, as if the world hasn't changed around them? Callen thought, hunching his shoulders.
Morwen followed silently, her eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. Callen felt the contrast sharply — their composure made him acutely aware of his own nerves. Don't trip. Don't make a sound. Keep it together.
"What could have happened down there?" he murmured, almost to himself. The words barely left his lips before Morwen's calm, precise voice replied, "They're calling it either a suicide or a double murder. The night guard was found dead beside Leslie."
Callen flinched. Leslie… he had only heard her name, glimpsed her once in the hall, but now it felt weighty, dangerous. He swallowed hard. If this is real, I don't want to see it. But I have to.
They walked across the reception hall. Sunlight streamed in through the towering windows, illuminating dust motes that floated lazily in the golden beams. For a second, Callen felt a strange sense of normalcy, like the world hadn't shifted under his feet. But that sense dissolved as they turned a corner.
A shadow waited. A stairway of iron and darkness spiraled downward, the edges lost in shadow. It seemed to devour the light, and for a fleeting instant, Callen felt a cold trickle along his spine. This is it. This is what they warned about. And we have to go down there.
Arven paused at the top of the stairwell. Callen's eyes followed him, taking in the senior investigator's unshakable composure. Teach me how to be like that, he thought, even if it's just for one moment.
Morwen stepped forward without hesitation, her boots making no sound on the cold stone. Callen hesitated. The darkness felt alive, pressing in from all sides. He felt the weight of every rumor he had ever heard — whispered tales of madness, of people who went down and never came back the same.
His mind raced: What if it's worse than I imagine? What if… I can't handle it? He swallowed hard, trying to calm his pulse. No. I have to. If Arven is calm, I have to be calm too. Just one step at a time.
He took his first step onto the dark stairwell. The echo of his foot seemed to vanish instantly, swallowed by the shadows. Cold air wrapped around him, carrying a faint metallic tang. It smells… sterile, but heavy, like old blood and fear mixed together.
He glanced briefly at Arven above him. The man's presence was steady, grounding, yet somehow distant — a reminder that experience could shield a person from terror. Callen looked down again. Each step felt longer, slower, as if the darkness itself resisted their descent. Just keep moving. Don't think about what's down there. Just keep moving.
Every shadow seemed alive. Every flicker of light made him flinch. He noticed the faint lines of the walls, the way the iron railings twisted unnaturally, and he wondered if it was real or his imagination running wild. Don't let your mind play tricks. Keep it together.
As they reached the bottom, a silence more oppressive than the stairwell above greeted them. Callen's stomach churned. This is what the stories meant. This is the Confinement Zone. And somehow… I have to step further.
Callen's boots scraped lightly against the worn stone steps as they descended deeper into the Confinement Zone. The air grew colder, heavier with each step, and the faint scent of antiseptic mixed with something more… indefinable. Fear? Decay? Madness? He couldn't place it, only that it made his throat tighten.
At the bottom, the narrow corridor stretched ahead, dimly lit by flickering sconces. Shadows clung to every corner, and Callen's pulse quickened with each echo of their footsteps. He could hear Arven ahead, moving with a measured confidence that made him feel both reassured and painfully aware of his own inexperience.
"Two officers at the barricade," Morwen murmured, her voice calm, controlled.
Callen squinted ahead. Beyond a reinforced metal gate, he could make out vague shapes in the dim light. The barricade looked simple, yet oppressive — a reminder that the zone was designed to contain horrors far beyond what any ordinary mind could endure.
He noticed the two guards standing stiffly, their faces pale and tense. They were silent, their eyes darting occasionally toward the corridor behind them as if expecting something to emerge from the shadows. They've seen things… things I can't even imagine. Callen thought, swallowing hard.
As they approached, the officers straightened, giving way to the senior investigators. Callen hung back slightly, his senses on high alert. Every whisper of movement, every shift of shadow, made him tense. His thoughts raced: What exactly happened here? Was it suicide, or… something worse? And why did Arven insist we come down here?
The silence pressed against him, almost tangible, broken only by the faint hum of the lights overhead and the occasional creak of metal. Callen's hands itched to fidget, but he forced them to remain still. Keep it together. Don't let your imagination run wild.
Arven stepped forward, nodding slightly to the officers, and the path to the barricaded cell opened. Callen followed, heart hammering. The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly, shadows dancing just beyond the edges of his vision. He could feel Morwen's eyes scanning every inch of the walls, and Callen realized how little he really noticed the subtle details until now — the faint stains, the irregular texture of the floor, the faint, almost imperceptible sounds that seemed to echo unnaturally.
Finally, they reached the cell. The metal door was cold, impervious, and a subtle aura of tension radiated from it. The officers outside maintained a rigid stance, silent sentinels to whatever lay beyond. Callen's chest tightened. This is it. This is what all the whispers, the warnings, the stories led to.
He took a slow, steadying breath and glanced at Arven. The senior investigator's posture was unyielding, calm, commanding. Callen forced himself to mimic it as best as he could, stepping closer to the barricade, ready to face whatever horrors awaited beyond.
The metal doors creaked open, revealing the plate that read "Leslie Rhyne — The Glassmind". Callen froze, his stomach knotting as the stale air of the cell hit him.
What lay beyond was… unimaginable. The night guard's body was twisted in ways that defied logic, limbs bent at unnatural angles, eyes gouged out. Bones protruded grotesquely from joints, jagged and cruel. Flesh hung in uneven masses, barely resembling the human form it once was. Callen's chest tightened, bile rising in his throat. This… this is what happens when an echoed resonant spirals into madness.
Blood coated every surface, dark and congealed in thick patches, forming a macabre record of the horrors that had unfolded the previous night. The stench of iron filled the small space, overwhelming, suffocating.
He tried to avert his eyes, but morbid fascination held him in place. His pulse thudded painfully in his ears. Fear clawed at him, raw and unrelenting. I can't look away… but I want to…
Even the senior investigators weren't untouched by the sight. Morwen's face paled slightly, her composure cracking just enough to reveal the faintest flicker of fear and disgust. Arven, though more steadfast, tensed, his jaw rigid, the subtle tremor in his hand betraying the shock behind his stoic mask.
Callen's own hands shook as he drew a shallow breath. If this is the consequence… if this is the Glassmind… no one should ever dare step this far. His thoughts raced, mingled with horror and disbelief. And yet… we are investigators. We have to understand it…
A cold, oppressive silence filled the room, broken only by the faint drip of blood from some unseen source, echoing against the metal and stone. Callen swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay focused despite the nausea, the fear, the impossibility of what he was witnessing.
Callen's breath caught in his throat as his eyes adjusted to the center of the room. There she lay—Leslie Rhyne. Her body slumped unnaturally, limbs splayed in ways that made him flinch. But it was her hands that drew his gaze—clutching a mangled, bloodied mass.
It took a moment for him to comprehend. Her heart. Her own heart, torn violently from her chest, still slick with blood. The floor around her was a crimson canvas, mixing with the night guard's blood in an unrecognizable, grotesque pattern. Every instinct in Callen screamed to look away, but morbid curiosity anchored him in place.
"She… she ripped her heart herself," Arven's voice broke the silence. Calm, measured—but heavy with disbelief. The words hung in the air, suffocating, pressing against Callen's chest like the weight of a stone.
Morwen stepped closer, her boots silent against the blood-stained floor. Even she did not speak, only lowering her eyes briefly, as if forcing herself to remain composed. Callen felt his stomach churn. How is this possible? What kind of mind… what kind of power…
The room seemed to pulse with a dreadful stillness, every shadow stretching unnaturally, the faint light from the ceiling flickering as if afraid to illuminate more. Callen's hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white. Fear clawed at him, but beneath it was something darker—a creeping awe at the absolute extremity of what the Glassmind could do.
"Her… the Glassmind," Callen whispered to himself, voice barely audible. His pulse thudded painfully, echoing the horror of realization. This… this is the price of the Climb… the madness of curiosity unrestrained…
Even Arven's composure seemed to sag under the weight of the sight. Callen noticed the faintest tremor in the older man's hand as he rested it on the hilt of his coat. The horror was universal, yet different for each of them—shock, revulsion, disbelief—all coalescing into a silent acknowledgment: nothing in their training had prepared them for this.
Callen swallowed hard, staring at the lifeless body. The whispers from his own mind seemed distant now, replaced by the crushing, physical presence of death and madness intertwined.