Lyra stood at the threshold of room 303, the stale air of the abandoned factory crawling across her skin. Behind her, Percival's steady presence offered silent support.
"I need to go in alone," she whispered to him, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the door. "He'll clam up if he sees you."
Percival's jaw tightened. "I don't like this."
"Neither do I," Lyra admitted. "But if he knows something about my past..."
She left the sentence hanging. Percival nodded once, reluctantly.
"Five minutes," he said. "Then I'm coming in regardless."
Lyra stepped into the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. The darkness enveloped her immediately. Her eyes strained to adjust, making out vague shapes of discarded equipment and broken furniture.
"Uncle Malachi?" she called out, keeping her voice steady despite her racing heart.
Movement rustled from the corner. "You brought the money?" Malachi's voice was raspy, desperate.