Reyzal sat frozen in the security booth, eyes locked on the screen showing the furnace corridor.
The sealed door—bolted shut with rusted chains just hours ago—now stood ajar.
A faint mist leaked from the gap, swirling unnaturally. It looked like fog, but it moved like it was alive. Writhing.
"No way... I saw the padlock myself," Reyzal whispered. "It was chained shut."
Every instinct screamed at him to stay put. To call the police. But something stronger tugged at him. Not curiosity—something deeper. Like a whisper brushing against the edge of his mind, coaxing him.
He grabbed his flashlight again. And a rusted iron rod from the emergency kit. Then he left the booth.
The hallways felt tighter this time. The shadows deeper. He reached the corridor outside the furnace room within minutes, but it felt like he had been walking for hours. Time bent strangely in this place after midnight.
The door was wide open now.
He paused at the threshold. The room beyond was pitch black, but the air was warm—oppressively so, like something breathing fire from within.
He stepped inside.
It was massive. The main furnace loomed in the center like the mouth of a dead beast—black, gaping, with soot-stained walls that pulsed with heat. The ground was littered with ash, broken tools, and... bones?
He knelt slowly, shining his light. Yes. Burnt fragments of what looked like finger bones.
"God…"
A whisper slid across the room.
"Reyyyzaaal…"
He whirled around. No one.
Then—he saw her.
A woman stood at the far end of the room, half-hidden in shadow. Dressed in a factory uniform, but her skin was pale grey. Eyes wide and hollow. Hair dripping wet like she'd climbed out of a river. Water pooled at her feet despite the heat.
She lifted a hand, pointing directly at him.
"Get out," she said, voice like a dying wind. "He sees you now."
The furnace suddenly groaned.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Reyzal ran to it, yanking the handle, but it was sealed tight again—no lock this time, just a solid sheet of rusted metal.
Panic surged in his chest.
The room began to hum. Deep. Low. Like machinery waking up.
Then—the furnace roared to life.
Flames burst within it, casting the room in a hellish orange glow. Shadows danced along the walls, forming twisted figures—workers in agony, burned and writhing, their mouths open in silent screams.
Reyzal backed away, heart pounding like a drum.
The woman was gone.
In her place, near the flames, stood a man now. Tall. Head shaved. Wearing a uniform from a different era—older, 1980s maybe. His eyes burned with hatred.
"You shouldn't be here," the man growled. "This place is cursed with fire and silence. And you... you've heard the whispers now. That means it's too late."
"Who are you?" Reyzal gasped. "What do you want?"
The man's eyes darkened. "I was the first to burn. The others followed. All because of what they did down here... what they tried to hide."
"What did they hide?" Reyzal asked.
The man didn't answer. Instead, he lifted his hand—and the furnace behind him screamed.
It wasn't a mechanical sound. It was human.
Dozens of voices crying out, merging into one terrible wail. Like souls trapped within its steel belly.
Reyzal stumbled back. His vision blurred. Smoke filled the air.
"Find the red book," the man rasped. "Find it before he does. Before he wakes completely."
Then the world tipped sideways.
Darkness rushed in like a wave.
---
Reyzal woke up on the floor of the locker room.
His uniform was damp with sweat, his flashlight flickering beside him. It was 4:12 AM.
He sat up slowly, trying to piece everything together. Had he imagined it? A dream? Some sort of hallucination from fatigue?
But his hands told a different story—covered in black soot. And in his pocket... a rusted key.
He stared at it.
On the side was a faded engraving: B-17.
The furnace room. The section that had supposedly been shut for decades.
His radio buzzed.
"Reyzal. Status check. Over."
It was the morning shift guard. Normal. Calm.
He cleared his throat. "All clear. Just... quiet."
His eyes returned to the key. His fingers closed tightly around it.
Something was very wrong in this factory. And whatever it was—it had chosen him.