Out in the corridor, the dark lay unchallenged.
No emergency strips came up to tell the blind where to put their hands; she had torn those out when the building thought it could still choose.
The air was colder here. Pipes breathed faintly. Somewhere below, something heavy settled as heat bled and the building adjusted to being a tomb.
She started down the hall.
Her pace did not change.
There was no reason to hurry; nothing inside could escape.
She had made sure of that.
The stairwell door at the end hung crooked where a hinge bolt had given up. She touched it as she passed, her fingers leaving a new print over old scuffs.
The stairwell breathed a draft up the shaft, metallic and damp, a scent of rust that had not yet had time to form.
She took the stairs without counting.
Landings came and went like they were nothing more than a figment of her imagination.
