A single fluorescent bulb flickered overhead, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls.

Ethan pulled a small penlight from his breast pocket and clicked it on.

“The laundry facility is to the left,” he whispered, gesturing for me to stay behind him.

We walked quickly down the narrow hallway, our footsteps echoing against the wet concrete.

The sound of dripping water came from somewhere in the dark ahead of us.

We reached a set of double metal doors with a sign that read *Authorized Personnel Only*.

One of the doors was propped open with a rusted iron wedge.

Ethan pushed the door wider, the hinges groaning in the silence.

The laundry room was massive, filled with rows of industrial washing machines that looked like giant metal drums.

A large canvas cart lay overturned near the center of the room, several white sheets spilled across the floor.

“Look,” I said, pointing to the wet track of boot prints leading toward the back wall.

The snow from the outside was melting on the floor, leaving a clear trail toward a heavy steel security door.