Chapter 3: The Burned Man's Warning

Chapter 3: The Burned Man's Warning

The thud of the mag-lock disengaging at precisely 6 a.m. was a gunshot in the silent tomb of the monitoring room. Liam flinched, his nerves shredded. He hadn't moved for the last two hours, his body locked in a state of rigid apprehension, his mind replaying the four perfect knocks on an endless, maddening loop. The roaring static in the headphones had transformed from a simple nuisance into a veil, a thin layer of noise hiding something patient and aware. He had failed the first test.

He stumbled out into the corridor, the sudden shift in acoustics making his head spin. Here, the silence was different—a cold, empty pressure that felt watchful. Every hum from the recessed lighting, every whisper from the ventilation system, seemed to carry a sinister weight. The long, seamless hallway stretched before him like a gullet, and for the first time, Liam felt an overwhelming urge to run, to burst through the main door and not stop until the antiseptic smell of this place was burned from his lungs.

But he couldn't. A gnawing uncertainty held him fast. Was he fired? Would Grant be waiting for him, his face a mask of cold fury? Or worse, would no one be there at all, his keycard simply deactivated, leaving him locked out and unpaid? The thought of facing those debt collectors with nothing was almost as terrifying as the memory of the knocks.

He forced his trembling legs to move, his soft-soled shoes making no sound on the polished concrete. He needed to compose himself. He detoured towards the break room, a space as stark and joyless as the rest of the facility. It contained a single metal table, two chairs, and a hulking vending machine, its faint internal light casting a sickly green glow. The machine was his goal. A bottle of water, a moment to breathe, something to wash the metallic taste of fear from his mouth.

He was fumbling with a crumpled dollar bill when a shadow fell over him.

"Long night?" Grant’s voice was a low rasp, cutting through the hum.

Liam froze, his back to his supervisor. He could feel the man's cold, penetrating gaze on him. This was it. He turned slowly, the dollar bill crushed in his fist. "Something like that."

Grant stood a few feet away, his gaunt frame seeming to blend with the grey walls. He wasn't angry. His face was a canvas of exhaustion, but beneath it, Liam saw something else: a deep, familiar anxiety. The same hunted look Grant had worn on the first day was back, but magnified, sharpened to a razor’s edge. His hand was in his suit pocket, and Liam could hear the faint, tell-tale click-clack of the Zippo being opened and closed.

"The feed can play tricks on you," Grant said, his eyes not quite meeting Liam’s, instead fixing on some point on the wall just past his shoulder. "Lack of sleep. Sensory deprivation. Your brain starts to fill in the gaps."

It was an out. A lifeline. Grant was giving him an excuse, a way to dismiss what he'd heard and pretend the night had been just like any other. The sensible part of Liam screamed at him to take it, to nod and mumble something about being tired and get the hell out.

But the memory of the knocks—so precise, so deliberate—refused to be dismissed as a phantom. This wasn't his brain filling in gaps. This was something reaching out.

"It wasn't static," Liam heard himself say, his voice barely a whisper. "It was a pattern. Four knocks."

The clicking from Grant’s pocket stopped. Absolute stillness descended on the room. Grant’s head snapped towards him, his eyes finally locking onto Liam’s, and what Liam saw in them made his blood run cold. It wasn't anger. It was pure, undiluted fear. The supervisor's professional mask didn't just crack; it shattered.

"You didn't hit the switch," Grant stated. It wasn't a question. His voice was hollow, stripped of all its earlier gruffness, leaving only a raw, brittle terror.

"I hesitated," Liam admitted, his throat tight. "It was only for a few seconds, then it was gone."

Grant looked as if Liam had just confessed to pulling the pin on a grenade. He took a half-step back, his scarred hand flying out of his pocket. His thumb, traced with silvery burn lines, began flicking the Zippo's flint wheel with a frantic, obsessive rhythm. Click. Click. Spark. Click. No flame ever caught.

"Seconds," Grant whispered, his eyes wide and unfocused. "You gave it seconds." He stared at Liam, but he seemed to be looking straight through him, at a ghost from his own past. "You think the first rule is the only one, don't you? You think this is just about keeping the signal clean."

Liam could only shake his head, speechless.

Grant’s gaze sharpened, his fear momentarily hardening into a desperate, chilling intensity. He closed the distance between them in two quick strides, his voice dropping to a harsh, conspiratorial whisper that was more terrifying than any shout.

"There are only two rules, Hayes. You broke the first one. Don't ever, ever break the second."

He leaned in closer, the smell of stale coffee and something acrid, like burnt wires, clinging to him. "Rule two is simple. If it talks, don't answer. You don't respond, you don't acknowledge it, you don't even think at it. You slam that button so hard you break your hand. But if you hear it using your voice," he paused, his scarred thumb rubbing compulsively against the Zippo’s cool metal, "if you hear your own voice coming out of that static… that's your last chance. That's the last time that button will work for you. You understand me? Your. Last. Chance."

The words hung in the sterile air, each one a drop of ice water on Liam's soul. An entity that could knock was one thing. An entity that could talk was a concept from the darkest corners of horror. But one that could mimic him? Use his own voice?

The implication was staggering. This wasn't just about monitoring a signal. It was about guarding a prison. A prison whose occupant was intelligent, patient, and actively testing the bars.

Grant saw the understanding dawn on Liam's face. His expression softened from terror into a profound, bottomless weariness. "It's a mimic, kid. An echo that wants a voice. Don't give it one."

He gave the Zippo one last, violent flick—click—and shoved it back into his pocket. Without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hall, leaving Liam alone in the green, sickly light of the vending machine.

Liam stood there for a long time, the crumpled dollar bill still clutched in his hand. He hadn't been fired. He had been warned. And the warning was infinitely worse. He looked at his own hand, then thought of Grant’s thumb, endlessly striking flint against steel, forever seeking a flame that would never come. It wasn't just a nervous tic. It was a story—a memory of a switch not hit, a voice that was answered, a last chance that was missed.