Chapter 3

On the day of the fire, I went into the building as usual.

I swiped my badge at the entrance, clocked in, signed off on the inspection log with a quick stroke, then paused for two seconds at the door of the first-floor security room and nodded to the guard on duty.

He saw me and asked casually, “Working again tonight?” I said, “Yeah, probably late,” and he smiled and waved it off, meaning he’d heard me.

As evening settled in, fewer and fewer people remained in the building. The sound of footsteps in the hallways faded, replaced by the steady rush of the HVAC return vents.

I made a slow loop outside the equipment rooms and checked two door locks, unhurried, like I truly meant to stay until midnight.

A little after nine, I returned to my office. I’d barely sat down when someone knocked.

Selene pushed the door open, carrying a paper bag that still glistened with moisture from the rain outside.

“Brought you something to eat,” she said, setting it on my desk as if it were nothing. “You said you’d be here late. Don’t tell me you’re living on coffee again.”

Inside were hot pizza rolls, a small box of salad, and a can of soda.

Last time, seeing this would have made me think she was being thoughtful.

Now I saw only one thing: she was confirming I was still in the building.

I looked up at her and kept my face neutral, holding my “normal” in place.

“Thanks.” I slid the bag slightly to the side. “You working late too?”

“Yeah. There’s still stuff to整理 in Records.” Her tone was light, like she was talking about routine office work. “Ryan’s pushing for it.”

When she mentioned Ryan, she didn’t dodge at all. If anything, she sounded comfortable.

Selene stepped behind me and pressed her fingertips lightly onto my shoulder.

“Don’t stay too late,” she said. “I’ll message you when I’m done.”

“Okay.”

She smiled, turned, and left. The moment the door clicked shut, I checked the time: 9:50 p.m.

I stood up, shut down my computer, grabbed my jacket, locked the door—one clean sequence, like I’d done it a hundred times.

When I reached the elevator lobby, I deliberately slowed down so the camera would catch my face, so the motion-sensor lights in the hallway would brighten the shot.

The elevator dropped to the first floor. I stepped out through the revolving door. The rain was heavier than it had been during the day, and the street reflected headlights like smeared paint.

I didn’t look back.

The convenience store was two intersections away.

I pushed the door open. The bell chimed once. The guy at the register glanced up at me, then went back to scrolling his phone.

There were a few customers inside—one choosing beer, another waiting at the coffee machine for their cup to finish.

I walked to the coffee machine and pressed for a large cup: Americano, no sugar.

In the quiet store, the sound of coffee dripping was unusually clear.

I pulled out my wallet, took out a few bills, paused for a deliberate beat, then tucked the wallet back into my pocket.

It wasn’t showing off. It was bait—feeding a simple signal: I looked like someone walking alone at night, carrying money, with no real edge to him.

When the coffee finished, I paid by card, carried the paper cup out, and headed into the street.

I didn’t take the main road. I turned, as planned, into the darker side alley.

It wasn’t long. At the end was a back-lot parking area, and a few streetlights that worked only halfway, breaking shadows into uneven patches.

I kept my pace relaxed, like I was only cutting through.

If they didn’t follow, I was prepared to provoke them myself. That was part of the plan too.

Under the second streetlight, I heard footsteps behind me—carefully light, but too impatient to hide.

Three figures separated from the dark. One wore a cap with his hands in his pockets, the other two drifting in from either side.

“Hey, man. Spare some cash?” the one in front said, his voice lazy.

I stopped and turned. The coffee in my hand still steamed. “I paid with a card. No cash.”

He laughed and stepped closer. “I saw you pull out your wallet.”

I nodded as if he’d caught me. I slid my hand inside my jacket—not to reach for my wallet, but to pull out my phone.

“Let’s not make this ugly,” I said. “I don’t want trouble.”

“You don’t want trouble?” He shoved me. My phone fell to the ground. “Then hand it over.”

I didn’t dodge. I provoked him instead. “Pick it up. Or don’t blame me for what happens.”

He kicked me hard in the stomach. I went down with it, letting my body hit the pavement. Coffee splashed across the ground, half the cup gone.

They started rifling through my pockets, rough and fast. They took my wallet and yanked the watch off my wrist.

When they finally ran, I pushed myself upright, grabbed my phone, and hit the emergency call.

Headlights swept past the mouth of the alley, and somewhere in the distance a horn barked once.

I looked wrecked, but I wasn’t out of control.

Because I knew exactly what would happen next.

A few minutes later, the glow of a patrol car cut into the alley, red and blue flashing across the walls.

Two officers stepped out. One kept a hand near his gear, scanned the scene, asked if I was badly hurt, then asked which way they’d gone.

“Three of them,” I said, pointing. “They ran toward the back street. Took my wallet and my watch.”

At the same time, in the building on the other side of the city, the show had already begun.

—

Ryan was in the company’s underground garage. The lighting was dim, and the only sound was the ventilation fan cycling through the emptiness.

He glanced at the time, then picked up his phone.

“How’s it looking on your side?” he asked.

Selene stood by a security door near the twenty-first floor. The corridor was quiet, filled only with the low hum of the HVAC.

Her voice was low, but confident. “Confirmed. He’s in the building. I checked on him a few minutes ago. His inspection sheet was on the desk. He said he’d be sweeping through the records area.”

Ryan gave a short laugh, like a piece had finally clicked into place. “Good.”

Selene hesitated for half a second before asking, “Did you cut the cameras?”

“Cut,” Ryan answered cleanly. “Stay where you’re supposed to be. Don’t move around.”

Selene’s fingers tightened on the edge of her phone until her knuckles went pale. “You’re sure nothing will go wrong?”

“Just remember your part,” Ryan said, calm as ever. “You’re the one trapped. Don’t overact and don’t panic too early. Once the alarm goes off, you start yelling.”

The call ended.

Selene stuffed the phone into her pocket and forced herself to breathe slowly.

She didn’t touch any electrical panels or wiring. She didn’t go near the real ignition point.

She only went to the spot they’d chosen beforehand, spread a few files on the corner of a desk, knocked a chair slightly out of place, and left her coat by the door as if she’d dropped it while scrambling away.

When she finished, she leaned against the wall and stared at the crack under the door, waiting for the agreed moment.

A few minutes later, a sharp buzz sounded in the corridor, like something slicing open the night’s quiet.

Then the alarm stretched long and harsh, raising gooseflesh on the skin. Emergency lights clicked on one by one, cold white, draining warmth from the walls.

Smoke began to seep from vents and door seams—thin at first, then thickening fast.

Selene retreated into the corner the way Ryan had instructed. She covered her mouth and nose, and only when the smoke grew heavier did she start coughing—broken, measured, like she was sending a signal: someone is here.

Finally, she began to call for help.

But the script didn’t unfold the way she’d planned.

The smoke poured in faster and faster. The temperature climbed. The door grew hot to the touch.

Selene pulled out her phone and made the first call.

No answer.

She clenched her jaw and told herself he was on inspection rounds, that he hadn’t heard.

She called again, her fingers shaking so badly she nearly missed the screen.

—

The police station lights were harsh and cold, and the desk surface looked freshly wiped.

The officer typing my statement kept a steady rhythm on the keyboard while I described the robbery, step by step, the way procedure demanded.

My phone vibrated on the table.

Caller ID: Selene.

I glanced at the time on the wall, flipped my phone face down, and ignored it. Moments later, it vibrated again.

The officer nodded, signaling I should take it.

I picked up. On the other end came ragged breathing, then Selene’s voice breaking into a scream.

“Aiden! The building’s on fire! I can’t get out—there’s smoke everywhere—get here now—”

I looked at the officer across from me and put on a startled, shaken tone on purpose. “What? What happened? Where are you?”

“I’m in the records room! Come and get me!”

I made myself sound even more frantic. “I can’t. I’m not at the office.”

For a split second, the line went dead silent.

It was as if someone had squeezed the air out of her throat. Then she exploded again, her voice sharp with disbelief.

“You’re not at the office? How can you not be? You said you’d be in the building! Where are you—”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

A dull, heavy crash came through the phone, like something massive collapsing, followed by a closer roar of falling debris and a burst of screaming.

The call cut off.

The officer frowned at me. “Something happened over there?”

I lifted my head and put on a frightened look. “Yeah. A fire.”

The room moved instantly. People stood up. Radios came out. Chairs scraped.

I stayed where I was, wiped the blood off the back of my hand, and took a slow sip from the disposable cup of water on the table.