THE FORBIDDEN ROOM
Ames didn’t sleep that night.
He tried.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the old radiator and the distant whisper of cars passing on Ridgeview Road.
But every time he closed his eyes, he saw Dr. Moore’s empty classroom.
He saw the bench where Ray Lison had spoken to him like a man issuing last rites.
He heard the words again:
“He didn’t send that message.”
“He was taken.”
“You were the last student he trusted.”
By dawn his decision was made.
He wasn’t going to sit around and wait for answers.
He was going to find them.
At 7:14 a.m., he packed his backpack with a notebook, two pens, a power bank, and a pocket recorder.
He left his apartment with a hood drawn low and went straight to the one place Ray Lison told him not to go:
Winding Waters College.
It was a reckless choice.
But it was also the only one that made sense.
If Moore had been taken, then the place he left would hold the first clues. And Ames — curious, stubborn, cerebral Ames — had a talent for noticing things others walked right past.
Campus felt strange when he arrived.
Too quiet.
Too orderly.
Students milled around, but their laughter sounded forced — as if it were bouncing off walls that had already absorbed a tragedy none of them knew had happened.
When Ames reached the south side of the Humanities Building, he spotted something unusual:
Two men in dark navy utility jackets standing by the back entrance, pretending to smoke.
They looked like janitors, until you noticed their polished black tactical boots.
Campus janitors didn’t wear tactical boots.
Ames circled the building, entered through the west door, and made his way toward the offices.
Moore’s office was on the third floor — Room 3B-214.
He’d walked past it dozens of times but had never been inside.
Today, the hallway felt like a tunnel leading into danger.
He approached.
And froze.
The door was locked.
Not unusual.
But the lock wasn’t the same.
The standard campus brass lock had been replaced overnight with a matte-black industrial cylinder.
A break-in?
A replacement?
No… this was intentional.
Ames pulled a glove from his backpack, slid it on, and tried the handle gently.
Nothing.
Then he noticed something almost invisible — a thin strip of tape near the bottom edge of the doorframe. Not placed sloppily, but precisely.
A tamper strip.
Someone was monitoring whether the door opened.
Which meant someone expected someone might try.
He stepped back, pulse racing.
“Think,” he whispered. “What would Moore want me to do?”
And then he remembered:
Two years ago, in class, Moore had lectured about covert entries.
“Locks keep honest people out,” he’d said. “But they’re also excellent decoys.
You’d be shocked how many secrets enter through the ventilation system instead.”
Ames looked up.
A ceiling vent sat three feet above Moore’s door.
Small.
Dusty.
The screws old.
It was a stupid idea.
A ridiculous idea.
But the kind of idea Moore would admire.
Ames darted down the hallway, ducked into an empty classroom, pulled a metal chair out, and returned.
He climbed carefully, unscrewed the vent cover with his pen, and slid it aside. Dust fell into his hair.
He exhaled, braced himself, and hoisted his torso into the crawlspace.
For a moment he lay still, listening to the humming pipes and distant footsteps.
Then he crawled forward, feeling his heart slam against his ribs.
After four turns, he reached the vent above Moore’s office.
He looked down.
The room was dark — but not empty.
A desk lamp glowed faintly, illuminating open folders, maps, scattered documents, and a glowing monitor shoved halfway into a drawer.
Someone had begun clearing the office but hadn’t finished.
Ames removed the vent cover gently.
And dropped into the room.
His feet hit the carpet with a soft thud.
For a moment he stood still, letting the weight of the room settle on him. He’d imagined this space a hundred times, hearing Dr. Moore’s subtle sarcasm echoing off the walls.
Now, it felt like a sealed tomb.
He stepped closer to the desk.
And saw the first clue.
A notebook, left open — deliberately or by accident — with a single line written across the last page in Moore’s unmistakable handwriting.
“Project S doors open from the inside.”
Ames frowned.
Project S?
Doors open from the inside?
A warning? A puzzle? A clue?
He reached for the notebook—
—and a cold realization hit him:
The room suddenly felt warmer.
No.
Someone else was here.
He turned.
Standing in the doorway was a man in a navy utility jacket.
The same boots.
The same blank expression.
Except this one wasn’t pretending to smoke.
He was holding something in his hand.
Not a weapon.
A phone.
He tapped the screen once.
A message tone pinged.
Ames saw the notification reflected in the man’s cold eyes:
“Subject located.”
The man stepped forward.
“Ames Ester,” he said flatly.
“You need to come with me.”
Ames’s breath stalled.
Because he now understood two things at once:
Whoever took Moore was still here.
And now — they wanted him too.
