Alice glanced at the vending machine, then at the end of the hallway where the three had disappeared. Her jaw was set, but her shoulders were starting to relax.
"Come on," she said, her voice lower now, more grounded. "Let's get out of here."
"Where?"
She hesitated—just a second. Then: "The clubroom. It's probably empty."
I nodded. Said nothing.
We walked in silence at first, her footsteps light beside mine, mine still echoing with leftover adrenaline. The walls blurred past. A few stares followed us, but no one said anything. Not after what they'd seen.
By the time we reached the old door tucked at the back of the east wing, the tension had melted into something else. Not quite ease. Not yet. But not fear either.
Then she said, "Come on."
"Where?"
"The clubroom," she said, already turning.
"Thought I wasn't allowed in there alone yet," I said, walking to catch up.
"You're not. But right now, I don't care."
We left the hallway behind—traded noise for silence, heat for sterile air. The deeper into the east wing we went, the colder the building felt. More deserted. Less like college, more like containment.
Finally, she stopped in front of an unmarked door with a small panel and a card reader.
Lab 3C.
Alice pulled out her keycard and tapped it against the reader. A soft beep. The door slid open with a quiet hiss of pressure.
She walked in first.
I followed, and the air shifted—like we'd stepped into something that wasn't entirely public. The kind of place most students didn't even know existed.
The lab looked like a place built by secrets. Harsh lights glowed over steel benches cluttered with wiring harnesses, sensor rigs, old soldered prototypes, and touchscreens still glowing with forgotten code. A soft hum came from somewhere deep in the walls—ventilation or something... else.
Alice moved like she'd memorized every inch of it. She didn't carry a bag. No notes. Just the kind of quiet tension that follows people who sleep light and dream heavy.
I lingered near the door, unsure.
She noticed. "Relax," she said, flicking on a desk lamp. "You're a member now, remember?"
"Probationary," I reminded her.
She smirked. "Same thing."
I stepped further in. The chill of the hallway had followed us, but the quiet here was heavier—thicker. Like the air was waiting for something.
She leaned against a bench, arms crossed.
"You didn't hesitate back there," she said.
I looked at her, confused.
"In the hallway. You could've backed off. Could've walked away."
"I didn't think about it," I said.
"Exactly."
She stared at me, as if looking too long might explain something she couldn't name.
Then, without a word, she walked to a cabinet, opened a drawer, and pulled out a compact first-aid kit. She returned, popped it open on the workbench, and took my bruised hand gently in hers.
"I could've done that," I said.
She didn't look up. "Yeah. But you didn't."
She cleaned the cut, wiping blood and grit from my knuckles. Her touch was careful—clinical almost—but her focus made the room feel smaller.
I watched her, quietly.
She was different in here. Not softer—just unmasked.
"I thought this club was just for tech stuff," I said. "You know… robots, competitions, solder burns."
She chuckled once. "That's the cover."
"And the truth?"
Her eyes flicked up to meet mine.
"Her words lingered in the air, quiet but heavy.
"You'll see."
I studied her face in the soft glow of the desk lamp—lips pressed, jaw tight, but her eyes had softened. Not cautious, not cold. Just… aware. Like she was holding something back. Or trying not to.
She turned toward the terminal on the bench beside us, waking the screen with a few taps. Lines of code blinked to life, soft blue on black. A faint hum beneath the table vibrated through the floor—low, constant, almost like it was breathing.
"I've been running something," she said, fingers gliding across the touchpad. "A diagnostic—well, not exactly. More like… a listening algorithm."
"To what?"
She hesitated. "Patterns. Data spikes. Feedback noise. Stuff most people filter out as background junk. But lately… it hasn't felt like junk."
On the screen, a waveform flickered—a quiet, pulsing signal, almost too faint to notice.
I leaned in. "What is that?"
"It started last week," she said. "But it's been intensifying. Unpredictable. Until today."
She tapped again, brought up a second window. The same waveform—but stronger. Recent. Timestamped.
"Right after you showed up."
I straightened. "You think this is because of me?"
"I don't know. But it only started reacting like this when you were nearby."
She turned to me, and for once, her expression wasn't guarded.
"I didn't want to tell anyone yet," she said. "Kai would just joke about it. Sophie would call it corrupted input. But… it's not. It's real. And it's not random."
She moved away from the terminal, giving me a clearer view.
There was something about the pattern that felt… familiar. Not like I'd seen it before, but like I'd felt it. Somewhere deeper than memory. Like an echo behind my ribs.
I swallowed.
"And you think I'm triggering it somehow?"
Alice didn't answer right away.
Then she said quietly, "You're not just a new member, Adam. Something in this place reacts to you. And not just the tech."
Her words settled in the air between us—weighty, unspoken.
I looked at the data again. "So what now?"
She exhaled through her nose, barely a sound. "Now we figure out what the hell this club actually signed you up for."
She pulled a rolling chair beside me, sat down close—close enough that our shoulders nearly touched—and began opening a few more files. One of them was labeled:
ARCHIVE-RED: /RESTRICTED/ADAM-LOG/
I blinked. "That has my name on it."
"I didn't create that folder," she said, not looking at me.
I stared at the screen. A chill crawled up the back of my neck.
Neither of us moved for a moment.