“No,” Voigt said. “Not this time. I want to see if she can find her way back.”
Emily ran toward the glass. Her hands bounced off as if there were pressure, not surface area. The glass vibrated, but it didn’t give way.
“Stop!” she screamed, but her voice sounded muffled, as if speaking through water.
The figures didn’t react. The space beyond the pane seemed to recede while hers contracted. The light flickered.
Then the noise suddenly stopped. The headphones were silent.
Emily ripped them off her head. A blast of cold air hit her. The space around her was the same old tunnel room again—concrete, cables, dust. The book lay open on the table, a page turned.
There, in the same handwriting, it said: “When you have read this, remember the name you erased.”
Below it, smaller, almost invisible: A name.
She stepped back. The emergency light on the wall flickered. The terminal screen flickered to life again, displaying a new line:
Synchronization in 00:01.
“No,” she whispered. She reached for the power cord, but the monitor was connected wirelessly. One last resort—she’d have to overload the system. She picked up the book and slammed it against the screen. Glass shattered, lights flickered. The smell of ozone and dust filled the room.
A noise behind her. Footsteps. Slow, steady.
She whirled around.
Voigt was standing in the doorway.
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