The technician’s scanner steadied.
Not completely.
But enough to notice a pattern.
Titus watched the display closely. The readings were still fluctuating, but they weren’t random anymore.
They pulsed.
Faint.
Consistent.
Carlos leaned slightly closer.
“You seeing that?”
The technician nodded slowly.
“Yeah… it’s not interference anymore.”
Titus frowned.
“What do you mean?”
The technician hesitated, like he didn’t like his own answer.
“It’s structured.”
That word sat wrong in the air.
No one moved for a moment.
The maintenance room felt tighter now, even though nothing had physically changed.
The faint electrical smell still lingered.
The lights above them stayed on.
Stable.
Too stable compared to the corridor outside.
Carlos glanced back toward the hallway.
“We should log this and move on,” he said. “That’s already more than enough for one report.”
One of the guards behind them nodded immediately.
“Yeah. This section’s clearly affected. We mark it and continue the sweep.”
Titus didn’t argue.
Protocol first.
Always.
They stepped back into the corridor.
The red emergency lights were still active, but the flickering had stopped.
For now.
The hallway looked normal again.
Or at least… normal enough.
Carlos exhaled.
“Okay. That’s better.”
Titus didn’t answer.
He wasn’t looking at the lights.
He was looking at the drone on the floor.
Still where it had fallen.
Still inactive.
One of the guards crouched beside it.
“Power loss,” he said after a quick check. “Internal systems are unresponsive.”
Carlos crossed his arms.
“Add it to the list.”
The guard nodded and stood up.
No one suggested fixing it.
Not here.
Not now.
They continued down the corridor.
Slower this time.
Not because of fear.
Because attention had sharpened.
Every sound felt more noticeable.
Boots against metal.
The low hum of ventilation.
The distant, faint echo of something deeper in the facility.
Still there.
Still below.
They reached the next junction.
A three-way split.
One path led back toward central command.
Another toward the prisoner supervision wing.
The third led deeper into maintenance routes that eventually connected to lower-level access sectors.
The technician checked his tablet.
“We’re assigned to sweep this section,” he said, pointing toward the maintenance route.
Carlos looked at Titus.
“Lucky us.”
Titus gave a small nod.
“Let’s keep it quick.”
As they moved into the maintenance corridor, the environment shifted slightly.
Less traffic.
Fewer active systems.
The lighting was dimmer here, even under emergency conditions.
Pipes lined the walls.
Conduits ran along the ceiling.
Everything felt more… industrial.
More isolated.
Halfway down the corridor, the lights flickered once.
Just once.
Everyone noticed.
No one commented.
They kept walking.
Another door appeared ahead.
Closed.
Inactive.
The control panel beside it was dark.
The technician stepped forward and checked it.
“No response,” he said. “Probably tied to the same interference.”
Carlos shrugged.
“Then we move on.”
Simple.
Clean.
No complications.
Titus lingered for half a second longer than the others.
His eyes rested on the door.
Nothing moved.
Nothing changed.
Still, something about it felt off.
Not wrong enough to act on.
Just enough to notice.
He turned and followed the others.
Behind them, the corridor remained quiet.
Still.
Controlled.
But far below—
The faint signal continued to pulse.
Unseen.
Unexplained.
And getting just a little stronger.
Part 2: Upper Decks – Infirmary
Viola adjusted her glasses and leaned over a patient’s monitor. The infirmary, usually a quiet, ordered space, felt off tonight. Even under normal lighting, the rows of beds and humming machines carried a heavier weight.
Drones hovered near the ceiling, their small scanning lights sweeping over the patients like ghostly eyes. Nurses moved between beds, checking vitals and recording notes, but Viola couldn’t shake the sense that something in the air had shifted.
Then the first drone wobbled. Its lights flickered rapidly, then went dark with a harsh mechanical whine.
“Just a glitch,” one of the technicians said, though his voice lacked conviction.
Another drone dropped, spinning to the floor with a clattering crash. A nurse yelped and jumped back instinctively, knocking over a tray.
Viola frowned. “That’s… not normal.”
The technician’s scanner beeped, displaying erratic fluctuations. “Electromagnetic interference,” he said. “But it shouldn’t be this strong here.”
Before anyone could respond, another drone fell from above, landing near the supply cabinet. Red lights spun as if trying to right themselves, but they didn’t.
Then… footsteps.
Soft. Deliberate. Not part of any patrol.
Everyone froze. Viola’s hand hovered near the comm, but when she tried to call for a status check, static filled the line.
Footsteps grew closer, echoing lightly against the metal walls beyond the patient beds. Nothing appeared in the lights—just the sound, methodical, controlled.
“Everyone stay calm,” Viola instructed quietly, though her pulse had spiked. “Focus on the patients. Do not leave your stations.”
Another drone clattered to the ground. Viola noticed a pattern forming—the failures weren’t random. Each drone fell in response to some unseen presence.
Her eyes scanned the room, catching shadows stretching unnaturally in the corners. Something was moving beyond the light, just out of reach.
“Check the drones’ last positions,” Viola whispered to the technician. “See if they correlate with any unusual activity.”
The technician nodded, typing quickly. Every time he looked up, a drone’s red light vanished.
The footsteps stopped. The air felt heavier. Then a metallic clang came from the storage corridor.
Everyone froze.
Viola understood: this wasn’t just a system glitch. Someone—or something—was moving near the infirmary. Watching.
And it wasn’t ready to reveal itself yet.