Inside the Labyrinth

The morning mist clung to the city like a shroud, obscuring the towering facade of Global Logistics and Transportation's headquarters. Sam, his heart pounding a steady rhythm against his ribs, adjusted the lapel of his suit, the VIP access card nestled securely in his pocket. He took a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs, and stepped towards the imposing glass doors.

The security desk loomed ahead, manned by two uniformed guards. Sam approached, his movements deliberate and confident. He presented the card, the sleek black plastic reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead.

"Good morning," he said, his voice calm and professional. "Samuel Drake, here to see Mr. Richards."

The guards exchanged a glance, their eyes narrowing slightly. One of them scanned the card, his fingers tapping on a keyboard. A moment later, he nodded. "Mr. Richards isn't in today, sir, but your card grants you access to all levels. Please proceed."

Sam suppressed a flicker of surprise. "Thank you," he replied, and walked through the security checkpoint, entering the vast, gleaming lobby.

The interior of the building was a testament to corporate power, a maze of polished marble floors, sleek steel elevators, and minimalist art installations. Employees, dressed in crisp business attire, moved with purpose, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. Sam blended into the flow, his eyes scanning the surroundings, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

He took an elevator to the executive floor, the doors sliding open to reveal a hushed, luxurious space. He wandered through the maze of offices, his senses on high alert. The atmosphere was deceptively normal, the employees focused on their tasks, their conversations mundane. But beneath the surface, Sam sensed a tension, a subtle undercurrent of unease.

He paused outside a set of double doors marked "Restricted Access." He glanced around, ensuring he was alone, and then slipped the VIP card into the reader. The doors hissed open, revealing a dimly lit corridor.

As Sam stepped inside, the air grew colder, the silence heavier.

He moved cautiously, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The corridor led to a series of unmarked doors, each one a potential gateway to the company's secrets.

He opened the first door, revealing a small, windowless room filled with servers and computer equipment. The hum of the machines filled the air, a constant, low drone. He scanned the screens, searching for anything unusual, but found only routine data and network traffic.

He moved to the next door, his hand hovering over the handle. He took a deep breath and turned the knob, stepping into the unknown.

"Yet another ordinary room," he thought. "Maybe what I'm looking for isn't on the executive floor." As the third room too was completely normal, he decided to leave the current floor and go to a lower level where employees worked.

He got inside the elevator and went to various floors, making sure to go in a random sequence so he wouldn't be too obvious. Next was the sixth floor, so he went inside the elevator again and pressed the button labelled 6. As the elevator doors opened, the room beyond was also surprisingly ordinary, a typical office space with cubicles, desks, and computers.

Employees sat hunched over their screens, their fingers flying across keyboards, their conversations a low hum of office chatter. Sam blended in, moving casually between the cubicles, observing the employees and their work.

Everything seemed perfectly normal. He saw spreadsheets, presentations, and emails related to logistics and transportation. There were maps of shipping routes, schedules for deliveries, and records of inventory. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He wandered further, exploring the maze of cubicles, his eyes scanning for any sign of the cult's activities. He noticed a small break room, the aroma of stale coffee and microwave popcorn filling the air. Employees chatted about weekend plans and office gossip.

Sam paused, his senses on high alert. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. The atmosphere was too perfect, too ordinary. It was as if everyone was playing a role, adhering to a script.

He noticed a small detail: a series of identical potted plants lining the hallway, their leaves unnaturally green and glossy.

He touched one, and it felt strangely artificial, almost plastic. He glanced at the other plants, and they all had the same unnaturally perfect appearance. The other floors all had natural plants.He moved closer to a nearby cubicle, where a young woman was typing furiously on her keyboard. He glanced at her screen, and noticed the same repeating pattern of numbers and symbols. It was as if she was typing the same thing over and over again, without any variation.

He moved to another cubicle, and another, and noticed the same thing. The employees were all performing repetitive tasks, their movements almost robotic.

He also noticed that no one seemed to be making eye contact with him. They were all focused on their screens, their movements precise and mechanical.The artificial plants, the repetitive tasks, the lack of eye contact – it was as if the employees were trapped in a loop, their actions devoid of genuine purpose.

Sam felt a chill run down his spine. This wasn't just a normal office; it was a carefully constructed facade, a stage set for something sinister. This floor might be the one he was searching for.

He continued his exploration, his senses heightened, his mind racing. He noticed a door at the end of the hallway, marked "Storage."

He approached cautiously, his hand hovering over the handle. He could hear a faint humming sound coming from within, a low, rhythmic drone that sent a shiver down his spine.

He opened the door, and the humming grew louder, filling the room. The space was dimly lit, filled with rows of shelves stacked with boxes and equipment.

Sam moved deeper into the room, his eyes scanning the shelves, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

He noticed a small box tucked away in a corner, its label obscured by dust. He reached for it, his fingers brushing against the cold metal. As he pulled it closer, he noticed a strange symbol etched into the surface, a symbol that he recognized from the map of the thresholds.

He opened the box, and his heart skipped a beat. Inside, nestled in a bed of foam, was a small, intricate device, its surface covered in wires and dials. It looked like a miniature version of the machines they had seen in the abandoned subway station. But this one pulsed with a faint, rhythmic light, and a low, almost imperceptible hum emanated from it.

As he stared at the device, a strange sensation washed over him. It was a feeling of calm, of serenity, a sense of absolute peace. But beneath that surface, he felt a subtle pressure, a gentle tugging at his thoughts.He felt a compulsion to pick up the device, to hold it close, to let its hum resonate through him.

He fought the urge, his mind screaming in protest. He recognised the feeling, the same subtle influence he had felt in the subway station, the same sense of being watched, the same sense of being controlled.

Sam's mind raced. This was it. This was the evidence he had been searching for.

The company was involved in the cult's activities, and this device was proof – a device for subtle mind control.

Before closing the box, Sam noticed something else. A small piece of paper was pasted to the inside wall of the storage room, almost hidden behind a shelf. He carefully peeled it off. On it, a date and time were scrawled in hurried handwriting: "31/10, 14:00."

The date and time struck a chord with Sam. It was eerily similar to the deciphered message from the phone and the slip of paper. He quickly pulled out his phone, and checked the original numbers. It was a perfect match.

His mind raced. It was the next threshold event. The company was planning something big, something that aligned with the cult's ritual.

He closed the box, his hands trembling, the faint hum still resonating in his mind. He needed to get out of there, to warn Liam and the others. But as he turned to leave, he noticed a figure standing in the doorway, blocking his exit.

The figure was tall and imposing, dressed in a dark suit, its face obscured by the shadows. It held a gun in its hand, pointed directly at Sam.

"Don't move," the figure said, its voice cold and menacing. "You're not supposed to be here."

Sam's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. He knew he was in a dangerous situation, but he couldn't afford to panic. He needed to buy time, to find a way out.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice steady, though his adrenaline was surging. "What's going on here?"

The figure didn't answer. It took a step closer, the gun unwavering. "You know too much," it said, its voice a low growl.

"You've seen things you shouldn't have."