The iron grate was rusted shut and was way heavier than it looked. Elias hooked the curved end of the crowbar into the rusty crack and pulled with everything he had. He wasn't a man who did manual labor. His hands were soft and were only toughened by the friction of a mouse and a keyboard. His muscles felt like thin wires that were about to snap, and his palms were already stinging from the rough metal.
He stopped for a second to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He took a shaky breath, adjusted his grip, and yanked the bar upward one more time.
The grate finally moved with a loud, screeching sound that made his ears ring. It felt like the whole neighborhood must have heard it. He froze, looking around the dark alley, waiting for a flashlight or a siren, but nothing happened. He kicked the grate the rest of the way open, swung his legs over the edge, and dropped into the dark.
He dropped about six feet and landed in a few inches of nasty, black water. It wasn't just rain—it was like oily slush that smelled like a basement that hadn't been cleaned in fifty years. The cold water soaked through his expensive wool socks instantly. He stayed there for a second, gasping, waiting for his heart to slow down. His feet felt like blocks of ice, and the smell of wet dirt and old metal made him want to gag.
Above him, the sky was just a dark, blurry square at the top of the hole. Every few seconds, a bright white light from a police drone zoomed across the opening, making him duck his head so they wouldn't see his face. He reached up, grabbed the heavy iron handle, and pulled the lid back over the hole. It closed with a loud thud that echoed all the way down the tunnel. Now it was pitch black.
Elias fumbled with his bag and grabbed his flashlight. It was a heavy, yellow plastic one he'd found in the kitchen. When he clicked it on, the beam was kind of weak and flickered a bit. He could see filthy white mold on the walls and bunches of old, cut wires hanging from the ceiling like dead vines.
He started walking.
The tunnel was really narrow, and he had to hunch over so he wouldn't crack his head on the low pipes. Every time he took a step, the water made a loud squish-slop sound that seemed way too loud in the quiet tunnel. He kept his eyes on the ground, trying not to think about what kind of bugs or rats were living in the trash piles along the walls. His back started to hurt from leaning forward, but he didn't want to stop.
After walking for what felt like twenty minutes, the tunnel opened up into a bigger room. It looked like some kind of old electrical hub from a long time ago. There were rows of big metal lockers against the walls, and most of them were kicked in or rusted so badly they were falling apart.
Elias stopped. His heart skipped a beat. There was a piece of white paper taped right to the middle of the cleanest locker.
He walked closer, his flashlight shaking in his hand. It was a missing person flyer for Clara. He had seen the digital version a million times on his computer, but seeing a real, physical piece of paper down here felt different. It felt real.
Someone had used a thick red marker to draw messy, angry circles around her eyes. It looked like something a little kid would do, or someone who was totally losing it. Under the picture, someone had scrawled four words in big, shaky letters:
IS SHE GONE YET?
Elias felt a cold knot in his stomach. This wasn't some AI trick or a computer glitch. Someone had actually walked down here, stood in this exact spot, and taped this up.
"Is anyone there?" he yelled.
His voice hit the walls and bounced back at him, sounding weird and flat. Nobody answered. The only sound was a steady drip-drip-drip from a pipe somewhere behind him. He reached out and ripped the paper off the locker. His hands were shaking so much the paper crinkled and tore in his grip.
He moved the flashlight beam down toward the floor. In the thick layer of mud and dust near the locker, he saw a footprint.
It was a fresh boot print, and it looked exactly like the ones he was making. He stepped next to it to check. It was a perfect match. Same size, same flat sole, and the same weird scratch on the left toe where he'd tripped earlier that morning.
Elias backed away, his heart hammering against his ribs. He remembered the old man telling him that the "Scrubber" program could take over his body when he blacked out. He reached into his jacket pocket, hoping it was empty, but his fingers hit something hard and plastic.
He pulled it out.
It was a red marker. The cap was gone, and there was a long red stain on the white lining of his jacket.
He hadn't been followed down here. He was the one who had done this. He was the one who drew on the picture and wrote the creepy note to himself. He just didn't remember any of it.
Elias shoved the marker back into his pocket like it was a piece of hot coal. He didn't even think; he just started running. He scrambled through the muck, his breath coming in short, loud gasps. He didn't care about being quiet anymore or splashing the gross water on his pants. He just had to get to the Tower and find the server. He had to stop the program before the version of him with the red marker decided to come back and finish the job.