Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
I pull the lapels of my jacket tighter around my face to protect myself against the cool night air. Then I slide out of the car, my legs shaky. The evening air carries with it the scent of rust and abandonment. In the distance, I hear the occasional car passing by on the highway, but here, in this parking lot, it’s eerily quiet.
Each step I take is slow and easy. I try not to notice the way my pulse quickens as the building comes into view. It’s not the erratic rhythm my doctors always warn about, but the controlled tempo of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.
For once, I’m not following doctors’ orders or my parents’ expectations.
Something about this moment is so exhilarating that for one fleeting second, I don’t want it to end.
The Northstar Pharmaceuticals warehouse rises like a shadowed fortress against the darkening sky. Unlike the truly abandoned buildings nearby, this one shows subtle signs of use—recently cleared loading areas, a security camera disguised as broken, and fresh tire tracks in the gravel.
I crouch behind a dumpster and get a good look at what I assume to be the entrance.
A square black box outside the door tells me I’ll need a code if I plan to get in or out of this place. Whatever the hell this place is.
Maybe the reasoning for Aries’s disappearance is inside this building? I creep closer, keeping to the shadows. The warehouse is massive—three stories of industrial concrete with rows of blacked-out windows. Each is sealed, except for a few on the ground floor that look like they’ve been recently replaced. The loading dock on the far side looks partially operational, its bay door lowered but not completely closed.
Bingo. My way in.
A light flickers on inside, visible through a sliver of uncovered window. I spot Aries’s silhouette as he moves across the space, purposeful and unhurried.
What’s the plan now?
I’m a terrible stalker because I didn’t even think of my next steps. Go inside, you idiot. My brain urges, but I hesitate to move for an instant. What if whatever I find inside changes everything? My fingers close around the inhaler in my pocket, then move to the pepper spray beside it. Both are symbols of different parts of myself: the vulnerable patient and the person I could be if I stopped accepting the limitations others place on me.
The real question isn’t what I should do—it’s who I want to be. The delicate flower my family has cultivated, or someone who takes risks when necessary.
Before I can second-guess myself any further, I move toward the loading dock, heart drumming a rhythm of fear and exhilaration in my chest. If I find nothing, I’ll leave and reconsider my options. But if I find something...
The gap beneath the loading dock door is just wide enough for someone of my slight build to slip through. Sinking down on my stomach, I take a deep breath and slowly army crawl beneath the door and into the unknown.
The concrete scrapes my stomach as I squeeze beneath the loading dock door. There’s a distinct change in air temperature between the outside and the warehouse, the warehouse air being cooler and carrying an undercurrent of disinfectant. Instinctively, I know this isn’t just a random warehouse.
I push into a crouching position and cling to the shadows, giving my eyes time to adjust to the dimness. The warehouse stretches before me, cavernous and compartmentalized. Most of it remains industrial storage space—stacked crates, abandoned shelving units, dust-covered equipment. To my left, ancient pharmaceutical machinery looms like sleeping beasts. To my right, rows of empty shelves disappear into darkness. Ahead, a shaft of light cuts across the concrete floor, showing me a route to somewhere deeper inside the building.
I move toward the light, keeping one hand against the wall. My footsteps make no sound—a skill perfected through years of midnight wanderings in our home, avoiding the creaking floorboard outside Mother’s room.
As I advance, the warehouse reveals its secrets. Not a hideout—a home. A strange, compartmentalized home built within the industrial shell.
Is Aries living here? It sure seems that way, but if so, why?
The first area I discover confirms this—a kitchen, modern and immaculate, carved out of the warehouse space with temporary walls. Stainless steel appliances gleam under recessed lighting. A coffee cup sits in the sink. There’s even a knife block with professional-grade cutlery resting on the counter.
Everything is organized with precision—cooking implements arranged by size, canned goods labeled and facing forward, a meal plan for the week magnetized to the refrigerator.
My confusion grows, and that strange feeling in my gut festers, eating away at my insides like acid. Warning bells go off in my head, but I ignore them and continue, moving deeper into the space, keeping close to the wall.
Twenty paces beyond the kitchen, another section emerges from the darkness—a living area with a leather sofa, television, and bookshelves. I pause at the edge, scanning the titles: tactical manuals, psychology textbooks, true crime. A dog-eared copy of “The Art of War” sits prominently on the coffee table.