Adrian couldn't feel his fingers anymore.
The room was dark, save for a thin strip of light where the heavy wooden door didn't quite seal. The air was hot, like the inside of a closed car in July, thick and stale. He lay on the floor beside Amara, who had pressed her back against the wall and wrapped her arms around her knees.
Neither of them had spoken in nearly twenty minutes.
Then came the whisper.
"Do you smell that?"
Adrian lifted his head. "Smoke."
Amara nodded slowly. "It's coming from the vents."
He stood, testing the knob again. It still jammed. The metal handle had blistered under his grip earlier. Whoever locked them in had turned the old archives into an oven.
He moved to the grate at the ceiling with a narrow slit covered with dust. Heat poured through it, carrying the unmistakable smell of burning.
"This wasn't just to trap us," Amara murmured. "It was to erase us."
Adrian turned sharply. "No. Not like this."
His eyes scanned the room, heart pounding. He could barely think. The files. The files!
He rushed to the nearest shelf and started pulling out the oldest boxes. Nothing useful. Then, he saw a janitor's access hatch. It was low, rusted, barely visible behind a crate labeled "Disciplinary Records 1986-1993."
Together, they dragged the crate aside. Adrian wedged his fingers under the lip of the hatch and heaved. It didn't budge.
"Move," Amara said. She stepped forward, took a metal rod from a broken shelf support, and jammed it beneath the frame. She twisted. Something popped.
The hatch creaked open.
A tunnel.
Dusty, narrow, cobweb-laced. But open.
Amara didn't hesitate. She slid in first.
---
Author's Note -Mid-Chapter Clarification
Many of you have asked what exactly "Project Providence" entails. Here's what we know so far: it was a covert operation initiated by unknown stakeholders, possibly ex-government or ultra-elite boards, under the guise of cultivating "female excellence." But its methods were anything but noble.
The program tested emotional durability, obedience under pressure, and even loyalty to silent commands. Girls who failed these secret trials were quietly expelled, shamed, or, in some cases, disappeared without a trace.
Names like Saint Lysandra, The Headmistress, and even Toni's cousin Ralene have ties to Providence either as survivors, informants, or casualties.
Think of it as a hybrid between academic grooming and psychological warfare—one that Queen's Crest buried beneath decades of prestige.
Back to the story.
---
They crawled.
The tunnel wound downward in a slow spiral, the air thick with mold and burnt paper. Adrian coughed, covering his mouth with the sleeve of his uniform.
Behind him, Amara moved with careful precision, her phone flashlight barely piercing the gloom.
"Where do you think this leads?" she asked.
"Maintenance corridor, maybe."
"Or a basement no one's spoken of in years."
At last, they dropped into a stone-floored chamber which was wide and circular, filled with broken desks, chalkboards, and old science equipment.
A forgotten classroom.
Adrian swept his light around the room. Then he froze.
Painted in red across the far wall were the words:
"Providence Ends in Ashes."
Amara moved closer. "This was a warning."
"Or a prophecy."
A door creaked open from the shadows behind them.
They weren't alone.
To be continued in Chapter Thirty-Three.