Ravenport always smelled like salt and rain, even on sunny days. The ocean wrapped itself around the city like a warning—beautiful, endless, and unforgiving. Lydia Chen noticed it the moment she stepped out of the cab, her shoes clicking against the marble entrance of Lumina Media Headquarters. The building rose above her like a polished monument to truth, glass walls reflecting the sky with a confidence that felt rehearsed.
She tightened her grip on her notebook.
This was it. Her first real job. Her first chance to matter.
Inside, the air was colder than expected. Not just temperature-wise—something else lingered beneath the hum of fluorescent lights and quiet keyboards. The lobby was immaculate, almost sterile, as if imperfections were scrubbed away the moment they tried to exist. A massive portrait hung behind the reception desk: Victor Hale, smiling gently, one hand resting on the shoulder of a child from some long-forgotten charity event.
The man who built Lumina, Lydia thought. The man who built everything.
"First day?" the receptionist asked, her smile practiced but tired.
Lydia nodded. "Investigative desk. Intern."
The woman's fingers paused over the keyboard for half a second too long.
"Well," she said finally, sliding over a badge, "welcome."
That pause stayed with Lydia as she stepped into the elevator.
The investigative floor sat on the seventeenth level, far above the noise of street protests and ferry horns. The elevator ride was silent except for a soft instrumental tune that felt out of place, like lullaby music in a hospital ward.
When the doors opened, Lydia was met with rows of desks and the low murmur of voices. Phones rang, keyboards clacked, coffee machines hissed. Normal. Safe.
Or so it seemed.
Her editor, Mark Feldman, greeted her with a quick handshake and an even quicker warning. "Keep your head down, take notes, don't chase ghosts."
"Ghosts?" Lydia asked.
Mark laughed, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Rumors. Every big place has them."
She was assigned a desk near the back, close to the archives room. The lights there flickered occasionally, a minor electrical issue, someone said. Lydia tried to ignore the way the hallway seemed darker than the rest of the floor, like light refused to linger.
By noon, she had reviewed old case files, cross-checked dates, and fetched coffee twice. Everything felt disappointingly ordinary. She almost relaxed.
Then she heard the whisper.
It came from the archives hallway—soft, broken, and urgent.
"Don't write it down."
Lydia froze.
She turned, expecting to see someone standing behind her. The hallway was empty. The archives door stood slightly ajar, darkness spilling out like ink.
"Hello?" she called.
No answer.
A chill crept up her spine. She laughed quietly at herself, blaming nerves, caffeine, imagination. Still, when she sat back down, she couldn't focus. The words echoed again and again.
Don't write it down.
Later that afternoon, Lydia noticed something else.
People avoided saying Victor Hale's name.
When they did, their voices dropped instinctively, as if the walls themselves were listening. A senior reporter abruptly changed the subject mid-sentence. Another employee laughed too loudly after mentioning a private fundraiser at Havenwood Estate, Hale's infamous mansion overlooking the cliffs.
"What's Havenwood like?" Lydia asked casually.
The reporter's smile stiffened. "Lavish."
"That's it?"
He shrugged. "That's all it needs to be."
That night, as the office emptied, Lydia stayed behind to organize notes. The building changed after hours. Sounds stretched unnaturally. Footsteps echoed even when no one was there. The flickering hallway light buzzed louder, almost impatient.
At 9:47 p.m., she heard crying.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Contained. Controlled. Like someone trying very hard not to be heard.
Lydia stood slowly, heart pounding. The sound came from the archives.
She told herself not to go. She told herself this wasn't her job. But curiosity—no, responsibility—pulled her forward.
The door creaked open.
Inside, shelves towered over her, packed with dusty boxes labeled by year. The crying stopped the moment she stepped in.
"Hello?" Lydia whispered.
Silence.
Then she noticed something strange. One box sat open on the floor. Inside were photographs—old, yellowed at the edges. Events, galas, charity dinners. Victor Hale appeared in several of them, younger but unmistakable.
In every photo, his smile was the same.
Perfect.
Too perfect.
Lydia picked one up.
Behind Hale, partially cropped out, stood a young woman. Her eyes weren't smiling. They weren't focused at all. They stared directly into the camera, wide and hollow, like she was trying to be seen.
A chill swept through the room.
The light went out.
Lydia gasped, fumbling for her phone. The screen flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows between the shelves. Her breath echoed too loudly in the enclosed space.
Then—footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
Someone else was in the archives.
"Who's there?" Lydia asked, hating the tremor in her voice.
The footsteps stopped.
A voice followed—low, calm, almost kind.
"You shouldn't be here this late."
A man stepped into the light. Middle-aged. Impeccably dressed. Security badge clipped to his belt.
"I heard something," Lydia said quickly. "Someone crying."
The man studied her face for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You hear a lot of things in this building," he said. "Most of them aren't real."
He glanced at the photo in her hand.
His jaw tightened.
"You didn't see that," he added softly.
"I—"
"Go home," he said, more firmly now. "And forget this room exists."
As Lydia left, she glanced back.
The box was gone.
She dreamed of water that night.
Dark, endless water pulling her down while voices echoed from above, distorted and desperate. She woke with a start, heart racing, her sheets damp with sweat.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She hesitated before answering.
"Hello?"
Breathing.
Shaky. Uneven.
Then a woman's voice whispered, "You're new."
"Yes," Lydia said slowly. "Who is this?"
"Be careful what you listen to," the voice continued. "Some people don't like being remembered."
The line went dead.
Lydia sat in the dark, gripping her phone, the city's distant waves crashing against the shore like a warning she could no longer ignore.
She opened her notebook.
On the first page, she wrote a single sentence:
Something is wrong at Lumina Media.
As she closed the notebook, she felt it again—that sense of being watched.
From somewhere far above, behind glass and power and carefully curated smiles, something shifted.
And it had noticed her.