A bone-deep chill washed over An, making him shudder as he choked on a thick atmosphere, saturated with the smell of damp concrete and some kind of stale chemical. A heavy reek of formalin. This was not his apartment. A second ago, he was still looking at the restoration blueprints for the old building, the warm yellow desk lamp still cast onto the page. But no longer.
He was somewhere else. A place darker and larger. The only light was a pale blue streak of moonlight, cast down from a high, broken glass window.
An squinted, trying to adapt to the darkness. He was in the lobby of a large building. A dead lobby.
Long wooden benches, draped in cobwebs, lay scattered, a few broken in half. A rickety reception counter made of plywood, its outer veneer festering and blistering like burnt skin, revealing the gray particleboard within. Plaster from the ceiling had crumbled, exposing rusty steel beams, sagging like a rib cage. The wind shrieked through the broken window, creating mournful sounds.
On the opposite wall, a large bronze sign was almost completely oxidized, only a few metal letters glittered weakly:
TAM... A... CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL
Hospital. Abandoned. An's throat was dry. As an architect specializing in restoration, he had seen hundreds of dilapidated buildings. He knew decay had its own logic—erosion by time, surface humidity, destructive vandalism. But this place... this place gave him a skin-crawling sense of wrongness. There wasn't a single sound of life from outside. No car horns, no city noise. Only the oppressive, heavy quiet of oblivion.
A mumble broke the silence.
"Fuck… What is this? A film set? Which bastard is messing with me?"
An spun around. He wasn't alone.
A few meters away, a young man was scrambling to his feet. He brushed dust off his baggy hoodie, his smoky hair a tangled mess. Looking around, his expression of extreme confusion quickly turning hostile.
Next to him, a young woman was still sitting flat on the floor. She was motionless, hugging her knees, her whole body trembling violently, her eyes wide, staring vacantly into space. She looked to be college-aged.
"That smell... formalin. Exactly like the practical lab at school." Khuê's mind began to scream. "So cold, not a dream. This can't be a dream. Where... where am I?"
She tried to rummage through her memories, trying to find a logical anchor. "The diary, the 'Butterfly Collector' case. I touched it and... No. Impossible." Her reason, usually her strongest weapon, was trying to find a rational explanation. "This must be some kind of psychological experiment. Kidnapping? Anesthesia? Is that it? There must be cameras somewhere..."
She observed the two men. The smoky-haired guy seemed aggressive, unpredictable. The older man was silent, but the way he stood, the way he observed... it had a suspicious calm. An accomplice? Or a victim too? Scenarios were running through Khuê's head at dizzying speed.
Khuê's thoughts were cut off by a piercing noise.
CRASH!
The smoky-haired young man had just kicked the already decayed wooden bench hard. The bench flew, hit the wall, and shattered into pieces. The sound echoed painfully in the still space.
"Talk! Who the hell are you? What kind of fucking joke is this?" He shouted, turning towards An and Khuê. He pointed at them, his hand trembling. He was scared, and when scared, he only became more aggressive.
The young man's panic was like a match about to set everything ablaze. An felt his heart hammer, adrenaline surging. He knew this type. Panic would kill them before the real danger even appeared.
"Shut up!" An snapped. His voice was hoarse with dust, and louder than he'd intended. "Do you want something out there to hear you?"
An's words were like a douse of cold water. "Something."
It hung in the air, turning the formless fear into something tangible.
The young man froze. His aggression immediately deflated, replaced by visible fear. He took two steps back, the hostility on his face melting into bewilderment. He looked into the pitch-black void of the corridors, then back at An, clearly looking for someone to cling to, even though just a second ago he'd seen An as the enemy.
An turned to the girl, who seemed the youngest, and the most frightened. She was shaking, shaking uncontrollably. A blurry image flashed through An's mind: his young colleague, trapped under the scaffolding, panicking, his sobs drowned out by the sound of cracking concrete. An's chest tightened. He hated this feeling of helplessness.
He tried to lower his voice, but it was still hoarse and hurried. "You... college student?"
Khuê startled, looking up. Her eyes finally focused.
"My name is An. What's yours? Breathe. Take a deep breath. Look at me, are you hurt?"
Khuê looked at the harsh-faced man before her. He was older than her, with an angular face and deep, intensely focused eyes. He was afraid, she knew that, but he was controlling it. Her own panicking mind was somewhat soothed by seeing that.
"Khuê…" she replied, her voice a tiny, trembling whisper. "Le Minh Khuê. I... I'm okay. Not... not hurt."
"Good." An nodded.
He took a few steps back until his back hit the cold concrete wall. He reached behind him, touching the damp surface, feeling the solidness of the structure. He needed an anchor. In old buildings, the load-bearing wall was always the safest place.
"You two, over here." An motioned. "Get against the wall."
The smoky-haired guy glanced at An, then at the yawning darkness of the corridors. He muttered a curse, but also backed towards An. Better to trust this stone-faced bastard than stand alone in the middle of the wide lobby.
Khuê scrambled to her feet. Her legs were jelly, and she stumbled, almost falling. An shot out a hand, grabbing her arm—a rough grip, not gentle in the slightest, but firm—pulling her into the spot between him and the other guy.
"Children's hospital." An murmured, his eyes fixed on the sign. "Abandoned."
Standing between the two men, Khuê felt a little safer. An on her left, solid and quiet. The other guy on her right, visibly trembling with fear. Khuê could even smell the cigarette smoke on his clothes.
"Who has the time to build something like this, huh?" The young man said curtly, still trying to cling to the theory that this was a joke, even though he himself no longer believed it. He shoved his hand into his hoodie pocket, out of habit. The old, cold silver Zippo lighter fit snugly in his palm; it was his inseparable companion.
He flipped the cap. A dry click echoed. He struck the flint wheel.
Flick.
A weak spark flared and died.
He tried again. Flick. Flick.
Nothing.
"This is bullshit..." He fumed. "What now? I just refilled the gas yesterday."
Watching him, Khuê whispered, "The humidity in here is too high… Maybe it won't…"
"I've used it in the rain." The guy glared at her, his voice testy.
As he fumbled with the lighter, trying to blow on the wick, grinding his thumb hard against the flint wheel, true panic began to set in. Flick. Flick. Flick. Dozens of sparks flared and died instantly. Useless. In this damp space, the flame seemed to refuse to exist. The fire was his companion, his comfort. Now, it too was abandoning him.
An refused to stand still. He was a man of action. Back against the wall was defensive, but standing still forever would also lead to death. He looked around, reassessing the space once more.
"The reception counter," he said, his voice low and decisive.
Khuê and the guy looked at him.
"It's in the middle of the lobby. If something comes from the corridors, we can hide behind it," An explained briefly. "And it's the only place that might hold... documents, or anything that can tell us what's happening."
Khuê nodded; it seemed like a logical plan.
"Are you crazy? Go out into the middle of
that open space?" The smoky-haired guy protested. "No way, I'm staying here."
"Here, you're an exposed target," An replied, his voice cold. "Against the wall only protects your back. Your front, left, and right are all open. But at the counter, we only have one direction to watch. Choose."
An didn't wait for the guy to answer. He gripped Khuê's arm again. "Stay close to me, don't make a sound."
He started to move, crouching low, stepping carefully through the wreckage of broken benches. Khuê followed right behind him, trying to step exactly where he had stepped.
The smoky-haired guy watched them move, then looked at the yawning darkness of the three surrounding corridors. He swore, then hurried after them, his messy footsteps making several small noises.
An shot him a sharp glare that silenced him.
The distance was only ten meters, but it felt like it stretched for a kilometer. Finally, they reached the reception counter. The three of them pressed themselves behind the moldering plywood partition. It wasn't an ideal hiding spot—the wood was crumbling, reeking heavily of mildew—but as An had said, it was still safer than standing in the middle of the lobby.
An motioned for the other two to be quiet, then he began to explore. He climbed over the counter. Inside was a mess. Medical records, moldy ledgers, all soaked and turned into a smelly pulp. An old typewriter was flipped over, its keys all missing.
An brushed the sodden pulp aside. He was looking for anything still intact.
"Find anything?" Khuê whispered from the other side.
An didn't answer. His hands stopped. Amidst the thick dust and sodden paper, there was an object. An object that was perfectly clean.
It was absurdly clean. Not a single speck of dust.
A small, crimson red rubber ball. It shone under the weak moonlight, giving off an eerie feeling, as if it had been carefully wiped clean and placed there just seconds before they arrived.
"What is it?" The smoky-haired guy asked, curiously trying to climb over.
"Stay still!" An commanded. He didn't touch the ball. He just looked at it. The sense of wrongness in his chest rose again, stronger than ever.
Khuê also recognized the absurdity. "It... it has no dust," she stammered.
It was at that exact moment.
Klink.
A small, sharp sound echoed from the lobby, exactly like a marble falling on a granite floor.
The sound came from the end of the shadowed corridor to their right.
An's heart seized. He signaled for them both to be silent.
Then, another sound.
Thump...
This sound was softer, more regular.
Thump...
Thump...
Khuê clapped both hands over her mouth. The smoky-haired guy's eyes widened, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
It was the sound of a rubber ball bouncing.
It was moving, getting closer.
Thump...
It stopped, just outside their line of sight, at the end of the dark corridor. The sound was identical to the red ball in front of An, if it had been dropped. As if... an invisible child was playing with it, mocking them.
The silence returned, a thousand times heavier. They could hear their own heartbeats, hear the wind shrieking through the broken window.
An was crouching behind the counter, his hand resting on the decayed wood. He suddenly felt it was no longer hard.
The damp plywood under his palm... swelled, and then sank.
Slowly. Steadily.
As if... it was breathing.
The hair on the back of An's neck stood on end. He snatched his hand back as if burned, staring at his hand, then at the counter. It was still the same counter, moldy and cracked. But he knew he hadn't imagined it.
Khuê stared at the corridor, her mouth agape.
"An…" Her voice was gone, almost soundless. "The... the corridor…"
An looked up, through the gap in the reception counter.
The only streak of light from the broken window was narrowing.
He froze.
Not because of a passing cloud.
The two walls of the dark corridor... were slowly closing in. They were moving, grinding against each other sluggishly, crushing the space between them. The sound of concrete grinding on concrete began to rise, like the sound of boulders crushing one another.
An's worldview, built on logic, on structure and the laws of physics, shattered into pieces.