The Arrival

Oakridge Drive was the kind of place no one ventured willingly, especially not at night. The street was lined with hulking, rusted skeletons of warehouses and factories long abandoned. Graffiti-covered walls loomed on either side of the road, their crude scrawls barely visible through the rain. The glow of her headlights was swallowed by the darkness ahead.

The GPS chimed again. 211 Oakridge Drive is on your right.

Sarah slowed the car, squinting at the shadowy structures. The numbers on the buildings had long since faded, leaving only vague outlines of what had once been thriving industry. The phone on the passenger seat continued its relentless countdown: 46:34.

Her eyes darted between the road and the case. The weight of the unknown pressed against her chest like a lead brick. Why here? What could possibly be at 211 Oakridge that was worth all of this? She tightened her grip on the wheel, forcing herself to breathe.

Then she saw it.

The building was massive, its windows shattered and walls streaked with grime. A flickering floodlight illuminated a rusted number stenciled on the door: 211. She pulled up to the curb, her tires skidding slightly on the slick pavement. The car idled as she stared at the entrance.
It didn't look inviting. It looked like a trap.

The phone on the seat buzzed suddenly, its screen flashing. Her heart leapt into her throat. The message was simple: Enter. Alone.

A chill ran down her spine. She glanced at the black case, her pulse pounding in her ears. For a moment, she thought about driving away, about ditching the case and disappearing into the night. But the timerâ€"45:12â€"was a cruel reminder that she didn't have that option.
With trembling hands, she turned off the car and grabbed the case. The rain hit her like ice as she stepped out, the cold soaking through her jacket instantly. She hesitated at the curb, scanning the street for any sign of movement. Nothing. Just the rain and the echo of her footsteps as she approached the door.

The metal handle was slick under her fingers as she pushed it open. It groaned loudly, the sound cutting through the storm like a scream. Inside, the air was stale and thick with the scent of rust and mildew. The faint hum of a generator reverberated through the space, accompanied by the occasional drip of water from the ceiling.

Her flashlight beamâ€"shaky but steadyâ€"illuminated a narrow corridor lined with old, peeling posters and graffiti. Shadows danced on the walls, distorting every shape into something menacing. Her stomach churned as she moved deeper inside, the case feeling heavier with each step.

Then she heard it.

A faint shuffling sound, somewhere up ahead. She froze, the flashlight trembling in her grip. The sound was rhythmic, deliberate, like footsteps on concrete. She strained to listen, her breath caught in her throat.

"Hello?" she called, her voice barely above a whisper.

No answer.

Her grip tightened on the flashlight. She glanced back toward the entrance, the urge to run tugging at her legs, but the countdownâ€"43:27â€"kept her moving forward.
The corridor opened into a cavernous space, its high ceiling lost in shadows. Rows of machinery, long dormant, loomed like giant metal skeletons. In the center of the room, under a single, flickering light, stood a metal table.

And on the table sat another black case.

Her heart sank. It was identical to the one she carried, right down to the blood-red sticker in the corner. The sight of it sent a chill through her body, her instincts screaming at her to leave.
The phone in her case buzzed again. She fumbled to open it, her hands slick with rain and sweat. The screen displayed a new message: Open the case.

She swallowed hard, her fingers trembling as she unclasped the latches. The velvet lining gleamed under the flashlight, cradling the phone. This time, the screen didn't display a countdown. Instead, a video feed flickered to life.

Her breath hitched.

The footage showed her car, parked outside in the rain. The angle was low, almost ground-level, as though someoneâ€"or somethingâ€"was crouched nearby. Her flashlight wavered as she looked back toward the corridor. The door she'd entered through was just visible in the distance, the rain still hammering outside.

She wasn't alone.

The video feed shifted, the camera panning upward. It stopped on the driver's side window of her car. A shadow passed through the frame, too fast to see clearly. Sarah's stomach twisted as she watched the shadow move again, slower this time, the outline of a figure unmistakable.

Her hands shook as the screen flickered, a new message appearing over the video: You're being watched. Move faster.

The phone's timer returned, its relentless countdown ticking away: 42:03.

A faint sound behind her made her freeze.

It was soft, almost imperceptible, like a breath just inches from her ear. She turned sharply, the flashlight beam slicing through the darkness. Nothing. Just rows of silent machinery and the drip of water echoing in the distance.

Her chest heaved as she turned back to the table. The second case stared back at her, its presence suffocating. She stepped closer, every nerve in her body screaming for her to stop.
When she reached the table, she hesitated, her hand hovering over the latches. She glanced at the phone one last time, the countdown ticking mercilessly.

41:12.

With a deep breath, she flipped the latches and opened the case.

The room went dark.