Page 70 of Lost Echoes

Our group moves toward the entrance. The building looms taller the closer we get, the glass doors glinting like teeth. Sofia flashes an ID at the security pad. It’s one of the passes Luke and I rigged. The lock clicks open with a mechanical sigh.

Inside, the air is cold and sterile, the kind of clean that hides rot underneath the surface.

I glance over at Kenzi. Her lips move soundlessly, like she’s reciting something only she can hear. Maybe one of Sofia’s grounding phrases. Maybe something older.

A shiver runs through me at that thought.

We continue through the main corridor, past empty reception desks and glass walls that reflect our faces in fractured shards. My heartbeat thrums louder than our footsteps.

There’s no turning back now. Not that it was ever an option. We’re doing this for Kenzi, Billa, Florencia, Sofia, possibly my mom, and for all the others. Plus Fenna and others like her—ones who have yet to be stained by this conspiracy meant to destroy innocent lives.

Billa mutters under her breath. “It feels like walking into memory.”

I’m sure that’s exactly what it is for her.

Ahead, Sofia stops at a fork in the hallway. “This is it. They’re setting up for the rehearsal in the west wing. That’s where Dr. Radley will be.”

Florencia presses the recorder against her palm. “Then let’s make history.”

For a breath, none of us moves. We just look at one another. Survivors, witnesses, and believers standing on the edge of something too big to undo.

Then Sofia opens the door to the west wing, and we step into the lion’s den.

36

Billa

The air changes the moment we leave the others. It’s colder here, sharper. It makes me think the walls themselves hold the memories.

Ember walks just ahead of me, flashlight beam cutting across white tile and steel doors. Every step echoes. The corridor stretches long and too clean. There’s no color except for the thin red stripe running along the wall. It’s a marker for the “therapy wing,” according to the map Florencia slipped us.

But therapy isn’t what it smells like down here. It smells of bleach and fear.

Ember stops at the first door. “You hear that?”

I listen. A soft hum. It’s mechanical, steady. Maybe a fan. Maybe a monitor.

Could someone be watching us?

She glances back at me. “I don’t like this.”

Bumps run down my arms. “Neither do I, but we have to see.”

She nods, and together we push open the first door.

Inside, the room is small and windowless, lined with mirrors on three sides. A single chair sits in the center beneath a hanging light. A camera blinks in the corner, its red eye glowing faintly.

Ember swallows. “It’s a stage.”

Her words hit me hard. I cross the room, fingertips brushing the chair’s arm. Cold metal. The kind that leaves marks.

Something flutters beneath it—a sheet of paper, half-torn. I crouch and pick it up.

It’s a schedule.

Columns of numbers, initials, and one heading that makes my skin crawl.

WING-B PERFORMANCE PREP.