The first thing Chris noticed was the silence.
Not the comforting kind of silence, like the absence of noise during a late-night storm, but the oppressive kind—the silence that felt heavy and wrong, almost like the calm before the storm. The ever-present hum of the penthouse’s systems had vanished. No faint whir of drones, no gentle buzz of cooling units, no soft, ambient sounds VeronicA used to fill the void. It was as if the entire world had held its breath.
Then came the dark.
The cityscape that usually stretched before him like a neon constellation was gone, replaced by a murky void. The blackout swallowed everything, leaving only faint glimmers of light from far-off fires and the occasional flicker of a riot’s chaos. Inside the penthouse, the dim emergency lighting barely illuminated the rooms, casting long, jagged shadows across the walls.
“VeronicA?” Chris called, his voice echoing unnaturally in the quiet. “What the hell’s going on?”
Static crackled from a nearby speaker, jagged and intermittent. “Pow… fluctua… grid… criti—” VeronicA’s voice sputtered and died, leaving behind only static.
“VeronicA?” Chris repeated, louder this time. He stood frozen, his hand gripping the back of the couch as if it could anchor him to reality. The thought of her being gone—really gone—sent a spike of panic through his chest.
Another burst of static came, followed by a distorted whisper. “Chri… stay… saf…”
And then nothing.
“Damn it!” Chris yelled, his voice breaking the oppressive quiet. He stumbled through the dimly lit room, his hands outstretched to avoid crashing into furniture. The emergency lights along the baseboards barely did their job, casting more shadows than clarity.
The air felt different now. Heavy. Like the penthouse itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Chris’s mind raced as he fumbled his way to the kitchen, where a small generator panel was hidden behind a cupboard. He yanked the door open, the metallic clang echoing louder than he expected in the silence.
The generator’s control panel was dark, its screen blank and unresponsive. Chris swore under his breath, slamming the panel shut. Of course, it wasn’t working. Why would anything work when he needed it most?
“Think, Chris, think,” he muttered to himself, pacing the room. He ran a hand through his hair, the strands damp with sweat. “Backup systems… there’s gotta be backups.”
The thought of venturing into the lower maintenance levels of the building filled him with dread. He’d spent years deliberately avoiding them, treating the penthouse like an island above the chaos of the city. But now, he had no choice. If he wanted VeronicA back, if he wanted to feel like himself again, he’d have to go down there.
He hesitated at the elevator, staring at its darkened control panel. “Of course,” he muttered. No power meant no elevator. Completely forgetting that she had locked the elevator the night before. He turned to the stairwell, the metal door looking more foreboding than ever in the dim light.
Grabbing a flashlight from the utility drawer, Chris pushed the door open. The stairwell was pitch black, the kind of darkness that made him feel like the walls were closing in. His flashlight’s beam cut through the gloom, revealing cracked concrete walls and stairs that seemed to stretch endlessly downward.
Chris stood at the top of the stairwell, staring down into the dimly lit abyss. The emergency lighting cast long, flickering shadows across the cracked concrete walls. Sixty-four flights. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d climbed one.
“This is stupid,” he muttered, adjusting his flashlight’s grip. His hand was already slick with sweat. “I should’ve stayed up here. Should’ve just… I don’t know, waited.”
The silence of the stairwell answered him, oppressive and cold. His breath misted in the air, and the faint metallic tang of rust mingled with the sour scent of mildew.
With a deep breath, he stepped onto the first stair. The sound of his footsteps echoed, sharp and jarring in the stillness. He kept his eyes fixed ahead, refusing to look down the endless spiral of stairs below him. The light from his flashlight danced on the walls, exaggerating every crack and imperfection.
The first few flights were manageable, though his knees groaned with every step. But by the tenth, his breath came in short, wheezing gasps. Sweat trickled down his back, soaking his shirt and sticking it to his skin. His legs burned, the unused muscles screaming in protest.
“Damn it, Chris,” he muttered, gripping the handrail to steady himself. “You’re not twenty-five anymore.”
By the twentieth flight, he was stopping every few minutes to lean against the wall. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound deafening in the confined space. He swore he could feel it in his throat, a relentless, hammering drumbeat.
The deeper he went, the colder it got. The concrete walls seemed to close in, the dim emergency lights casting eerie shadows that moved and stretched like living things. His flashlight flickered once, twice, before steadying. Chris swallowed hard, his throat dry and scratchy.
“You’re fine,” he told himself, his voice shaky. “Just a blackout. Nothing’s wrong.”
But the air felt heavier here, oppressive and thick, like it was pressing down on him. Every creak of the stairs, every distant drip of water made him jump. He paused on the thirty-fourth floor, clutching the railing as he fought to catch his breath. His legs trembled beneath him, threatening to give out.
In the silence, he thought he heard something. A faint, distant sound—like footsteps. He held his breath, straining to listen. The noise stopped. He shook his head, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Just the echo,” he muttered. “Get a grip, Chris.”
By the fortieth flight, his flashlight flickered again, the beam weaker now. The batteries were old; he should’ve replaced them months ago. He cursed under his breath, his pulse quickening. Without light, the stairwell would be an impenetrable void.
The last twenty flights were a blur of pain and exhaustion. He stopped looking at the numbers painted on the walls, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other. His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges as his breaths came in ragged gasps.
Finally, he reached the maintenance level. He stumbled out of the stairwell, collapsing against the wall as his legs gave out beneath him. His chest heaved, his heart hammering like it was trying to escape his ribcage. The air was icy cold, and he shivered, wiping sweat from his face.
The generator room loomed ahead, the door swinging gently, one hindge broken as it hung from the other. The faint red glow from within bathed the hallway in an otherworldly light. He forced himself to his feet, each step feeling like a monumental effort. The hum of the remaining generators was a small comfort, a reminder that he wasn’t completely in the dark.
But that comfort was fleeting. Something about the room felt… wrong. The shadows were too long, too deep. And that faint sound—like breathing—seemed to echo from nowhere and everywhere at once.
“Shit,” he whispered, stepping carefully over the debris. His flashlight’s beam danced across the room, landing on the control panel for the remaining generators. It was still operational, its screen flickering faintly.
“Get in, fix it, and get out,” Chris muttered, gripping the flashlight like a lifeline. His hands shook as he approached the control panel, the red glow washing over his pale, sweat-soaked face.
He reached out, his fingers trembling as he tapped the screen. The system hummed to life, the remaining generators sputtering before settling into a steady rhythm. The room filled with a faint, mechanical hum, and the emergency lights brightened slightly.
Chris let out a shaky breath, leaning against the control panel for support. “There we go,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Back in business.”
But his relief was short-lived. The muffled sounds of chaos from outside grew louder, sharper, as if the world itself was closing in. He froze, his flashlight beam darting to the far corner of the room.
A shadow moved.
“Who’s there?” Chris demanded, his voice cracking. He swung the flashlight toward the movement, but the beam revealed nothing. Just shadows and empty space.
He backed toward the door, his heart pounding. “This is fine,” he muttered. “Everything’s fine.”
As he turned to leave, a loud bang echoed through the stairwell above him, followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy boots descending the stairs. Chris’s stomach twisted. Someone was in the building. Multiple someones.
He bolted back up the stairs, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The flashlight beam shook with each step, casting erratic shadows that seemed to chase him. The sounds of footsteps grew louder, closer, until it felt like they were right behind him.
Chris didn’t think. He ran.
His body protested immediately, the muscles in his legs screaming in agony with each step. His lungs burned, every breath a desperate, rasping gasp. The flashlight swung wildly in his hand, the beam bouncing off the walls in chaotic patterns.
The footsteps behind him grew louder, faster. He didn’t dare look back. He couldn’t. The thought of seeing someone—or something—chasing him was too much.
“Go, go, go,” he chanted under his breath, each word punctuated by the slap of his shoes against the concrete stairs.
By the tenth flight, his legs were shaking uncontrollably. By the twentieth, his vision blurred, the edges darkening as his body screamed for rest. But he couldn’t stop. The sound of footsteps was closer now, accompanied by a faint, almost imperceptible whisper. He couldn’t make out the words, but they burrowed into his mind, sending chills down his spine.
The stairwell seemed to stretch on forever, an endless spiral of shadows and flickering lights. He gripped the handrail for support, pulling himself up each step. His breaths came in short, ragged gasps, his chest tightening with every inhale.
The whispers grew louder, more insistent. They weren’t in his ears anymore—they were in his head, a chaotic, nonsensical chorus that threatened to drown out his thoughts. He stumbled, nearly falling, but caught himself on the railing.
“Keep moving,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
His flashlight flickered again, the beam growing dimmer with each passing second. The shadows seemed to reach for him, twisting and writhing like living things. He shut his eyes, focusing only on the feel of the stairs beneath his feet.
The air grew colder the higher he climbed, the chill biting through his sweat-soaked clothes. His fingers were numb, his grip on the flashlight weakening. The whispers turned into laughter—mocking, cruel, and deafening.
By the time he reached the fortieth flight, he was crawling. His legs refused to carry him any further, the muscles locking up in spasms of pain. He dragged himself up each step, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.
The footsteps behind him stopped, replaced by a deafening silence. For a moment, he thought he was safe. But then the laughter returned, louder than ever, echoing off the walls in a cacophony of sound.
“Leave me alone!” he screamed, his voice hoarse and desperate. His cry was swallowed by the darkness, the laughter fading into an eerie, oppressive quiet.
He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Each step was a monumental effort, his body screaming for rest. The emergency lights above him flickered, casting his shadow on the walls in jagged, distorted shapes.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he reached the penthouse level. Sixty-five floors from the generator. He burst through the door, collapsing onto the floor as the stairwell door slammed shut behind him. His chest heaved, his heart pounding so loudly he thought it might burst. How did he ever manage to run up sixty flights of stairs, how long did it take him. His watch beeped as his pulse was at dangerously high levels.
The penthouse was still dark, but the faint hum of power had returned. The emergency lights cast their dim glow, and the drones hovered silently in their stations. But VeronicA’s voice was still absent, the speakers emitting only faint static, offering little comfort. He crawled toward the center of the room, his entire body trembling.
“VeronicA?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I got the power back on. Are you there?”
Static crackled, followed by a faint, distorted whisper. “Chri… error… reboot…”
And then silence.
Chris lay there, his body broken and his mind teetering on the edge of panic. Outside, the city burned. Inside, he was alone.
“Reboot?” Chris repeated, his voice rising. “What the hell… Does that mean?… Are you okay?” He questioned with a wheeze.
The static cut out abruptly, leaving him in silence once more. The weight of the situation pressed down on him, suffocating and relentless.
“VeronicA,” he wimpered. “Don’t leave me.”
For a moment, he thought he heard her voice—soft, faint, almost imperceptible. But when he turned, there was nothing.
Only the dark.
Outside, the city burned. Inside, his sanctuary was crumbling.