Chapter 2 - The Archive of Shadows
The pallet lurked forward, wheels squeaking under the weight, as Carter and Brad dragged me further into the sprawling, subterranean depths of Warehouse 4.
"Careful, don't flip it," Brad grunted, his breathing heavy. "Where does this aisle even lead?"
"To the old administrative intake vault," Carter replied, his voice dripping with venom. "They don't even use this section for logistics anymore. It's where they used to process international transfers and special admissions before the new digital portal went live."
As they wheeled me past towering rows of metal shelving, my eyes adjusted to the dim light. What I saw made my blood run cold.
The shelves weren't stocked with spare machinery parts, circuit boards, or packaging foam. They were lined with rows upon rows of battered leather suitcases, travel trunks, and duffel bags. Each one bore a faded, yellowed luggage tag with a student ID number, a home country, and a single, chilling stamp across the front: OFFICIALLY LISTED AS TRANSFERRED.
I knew the university's official statistics. Every year, a small percentage of scholarship students—particularly those from overseas or low-income backgrounds who raised ethical concerns about campus research projects—mysteriously dropped out, transferring to unknown institutions abroad. Their social media accounts went silent. Their dorm rooms were cleared out overnight.
They hadn't transferred. They had been warehoused.
"Set her down by that desk," Carter ordered, kicking a rolling office chair out of the way.
The pallet slammed onto the concrete floor with a heavy thud. The impact knocked the wind out of my lungs, but I kept my eyes half-closed, regulating my breathing so I looked completely out cold.
"Is she breathing?" Tyler whispered, shining his phone light onto my face.
"She's fine. The wrap is tight, but she's getting air," Carter said dismissively. He pulled out his phone, tapping frantically on the screen. "I'm rerouting the facility logs to show a system error at the main loading dock. While I do that, check her pockets. She must have recorded our conversation on her voice recorder."
Footsteps approached. Brad’s heavy hand patted down my coat pocket, coming dangerously close to the ceramic blade hidden near my knee. My muscles locked tight. If he found the blade, it was over.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic clang echoed from the far end of the aisle.
"What was that?" Brad froze, pulling his hand back.
"Nothing. Just settling pipes," Carter snapped, not looking up from his phone. "Hurry up and find the recorder."
Brad reached down again, his fingers brushing against my jacket. But just as he started to slide his hand into my inner pocket, a sharp, rhythmic tapping sound echoed through the warehouse—tap, tap, tap—followed by the distinct whir of a motorized wheelchair motor moving in the shadows just beyond our row.
May you like
Carter spun around, dropping his phone. "Who's there?" he yelled into the darkness.
The answering silence was absolute, save for the faint hum of an old ventilation fan overhead.
