Lila accepts Damien's challenge and descends into the forgotten apartment on Level 13—a floor sealed from public access, forgotten by most, and untouched for years. But this isn't just an empty space. It's a curated museum of memory and control. Every room whispers secrets. Every shadow echoes Evelyne. And in the bedroom, Lila finds something meant only for her—a truth she's not sure she's ready to see. By dawn, she won't be the same. But then again, maybe that's the point.
---
Last Moment:
"You want the truth? Then be brave enough to step into it."
---
The elevator stopped without a sound.
No button had lit up. No floor number had appeared.
Just a soft chime and the cold, mechanical whisper of doors parting.
Lila stepped out onto Level 13.
The hallway was narrow, lined with wallpaper that had yellowed at the edges and sagged like tired skin. The light came from wall sconces—real ones, gaslit replicas flickering with amber tones. Everything smelled of time, like dust and perfume and velvet folded for decades.
Her footsteps were hushed by thick crimson carpet.
The end of the hall held a single door.
1301.
She reached for the brass knob.
It turned without resistance.
The door opened into darkness.
And the past exhaled.
---
The apartment wasn't just old—it was preserved.
Everything inside was still. Arranged. Waiting.
A grand piano, its lid open, sheet music still resting above yellowed keys.
A crystal decanter half-filled with what might've been brandy.
Curtains drawn tight over windows, their fabric so heavy with age they barely swayed even as she walked past.
She touched nothing.
But everything touched her.
The first room was a parlor, its walls lined with books she didn't recognize and vases she suspected were too perfect to be real. A portrait hung over the fireplace.
A woman.
Evelyne.
Lila froze.
The woman in the portrait wore a red dress. The same cut as the one Lila had worn on her first day.
Only this one had blood spatter painted across the hem.
She turned away.
The second room was a study, dimly lit by a green banker's lamp that somehow still burned. Notes covered the desk—handwritten equations, sketches, surveillance photos.
One of them was of her.
A park bench. Five years ago.
She remembered that day.
She had been drawing birds.
She reached out to touch it.
The paper was warm.
---
The bedroom was last. She hesitated at the door.
Then pushed it open.
It was too clean, the bed was made . A red thread ran along the pillowcase and on the nightstand—
A single object: A compact mirror.
She opened it.
Instead of her reflection, a different image looked back.
Damien's eyes.
Just his eyes.
Staring. Blinking.
Not a photo.
A live feed.
She dropped the mirror, it didn't break.
The drawer beneath the stand opened by itself. Inside, a journal.
She pulled it out. Flipped to the first page.
Handwritten and Familiar.
Evelyne.
> He watches everything. But he doesn't see everything. This room is mine. And if you're reading this, then maybe it's yours too.
Lila turned another page.
> I tried to warn them. I tried to leave. But the tower has rules. And breaking them isn't about falling. It's about forgetting.
Her hands shook.
The window blinds opened by themselves.
And behind the glass—
Nothing, No city.
Just darkness.
Lila stepped back.
The walls began to pulse—dim lights under the wallpaper forming symbols she didn't recognize.
The piano in the parlor began to play a single note. Over and over.
She ran, out of the bedroom.
Through the study.
Back to the door. It wouldn't open.
The portrait's eyes followed her.
She screamed.
And then—
The lights died.
---
Her phone buzzed.
One message.
From Unknown-
"You opened the door. Now come upstairs."
The elevator was open again. Waiting....
And as she stepped inside, the hallway behind her sealed.
No more door.
No more 1301.
Just the echo of music.
And the cold certainty that whatever this was—
It had only just begun.