Lydia didn't sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, the archives room returned—shelves stretching too high, shadows bending where they shouldn't, the young woman in the photograph staring through time as if Lydia had failed her already.
By morning, Ravenport was soaked in rain.
She stood across the street from Lumina Media, coffee cooling in her hand, watching people file inside with umbrellas raised like shields. The building looked different in daylight. Less ominous. More honest.
Buildings can lie, she thought.
Inside, everything felt… watched.
Not overtly. No staring eyes, no whispered warnings. Just small things. Conversations stopping when she passed. Phones lowered. Doors gently closed.
Mark barely looked up when she sat down. "You okay?"
"Did someone work late in archives last night?" she asked.
He paused. "Why?"
"I thought I heard—"
"No," he said quickly. Too quickly. "Archives are locked after seven."
"But I—"
"Lydia," he sighed, finally meeting her eyes. "This place eats people who chase shadows. Do the work you're assigned."
She nodded, though something in her chest tightened.
By noon, she was sent to help with background research—old employment records, internal transfers, sealed settlements. Boring, harmless work.
Until she noticed a pattern.
Names appeared, disappeared, then reappeared months later under different departments. Assistants. Interns. Junior producers. Mostly young. Mostly women.
Most with no exit interviews.
One name snagged her attention.
Elena Rivera.
Transferred three times in two years. Final note: Resigned voluntarily.
Lydia clicked the attached file.
Corrupted.
She tried again. Same result.
A shadow crossed her desk.
"You shouldn't pull that one."
Lydia looked up at Clara Whitmore, a senior editor known for chewing interns alive. Clara's eyes were sharp, calculating.
"Why?" Lydia asked.
Clara leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Because those files are closed."
"By who?"
Clara straightened. "By people who don't ask twice."
Then she walked away.
That evening, Lydia did something reckless.
She stayed late again.
Rain streaked down the windows, blurring the city into streaks of gray and silver. The office emptied slowly, reluctance clinging to those who lingered as if leaving meant something worse awaited outside.
At 8:12 p.m., Lydia accessed the server remotely.
She wasn't supposed to. But someone had left a sticky note beneath her keyboard earlier.
Try the old credentials.
No name.
Her fingers trembled as she typed.
The screen flickered.
Access granted.
Her breath caught.
Folders unfolded like a rotting tree—subdirectories hidden beneath meaningless labels. Events. Donations. Outreach.
And then one labeled simply: Private Affairs.
Inside were scanned agreements. Confidential settlements. Non-disclosure clauses.
She scrolled.
Her stomach turned.
Dates overlapped. Names repeated. Amounts escalated.
These weren't accidents. They were patterns.
A noise behind her made her spin.
The hallway light flickered.
Footsteps echoed—slow, unhurried.
Someone was walking toward her desk.
Lydia minimized the screen, heart hammering.
Victor Hale emerged from the shadows.
In person, he was taller than she expected. His presence filled the room effortlessly, like gravity bending around him. His suit was immaculate. His expression warm.
"Working late?" he asked gently.
Lydia stood. "I—yes. Catching up."
He smiled. "Dedication. Lumina thrives on it."
His eyes drifted to her screen.
Her pulse roared in her ears.
"You remind me of someone," Hale said casually. "A former intern. Brilliant mind. Curious."
Lydia swallowed. "What happened to her?"
Something flickered across his face. Gone too fast to name.
"She didn't understand boundaries."
Silence stretched between them.
Hale stepped closer. "This company offers opportunity. Protection. Purpose." His voice lowered. "But curiosity without restraint can be… dangerous."
"I just want the truth," Lydia said, surprising herself.
Hale smiled wider. "So does everyone. Until they see it."
He turned to leave, pausing at the hallway.
"Oh," he added softly. "Don't stay too late again."
The lights steadied.
He was gone.
Lydia left ten minutes later, rain soaking her hair, breath coming fast.
Her phone buzzed as she reached the bus stop.
Unknown Number
She hesitated, then answered.
"Lydia Chen," a woman said, voice shaking. "You looked at my file."
Lydia froze. "Elena?"
A soft exhale. "They told me no one would ever open it again."
"I'm sorry," Lydia said. "I didn't mean to—"
"No," Elena interrupted. "I'm glad you did."
A pause.
"They don't hurt you at first," Elena continued quietly. "They make you feel chosen."
Lydia closed her eyes.
"What happened at Havenwood?" she asked.
The line crackled.
"Elena?" Lydia whispered.
Then—click.
Disconnected.
Across the street, a black car idled, headlights off.
Lydia didn't wait to see who was inside.
She ran.
That night, Lydia locked her apartment door twice.
She pulled the photograph from her bag—the one she'd taken from the archives before anyone noticed.
She turned it over.
Written faintly on the back, almost erased:
"If you're reading this, it's already happening."
Outside, waves crashed harder against the shore.
And somewhere, behind closed doors and sealed files, power shifted—quietly preparing to strike back.