Brandon pulled into the nearly deserted lot outside the storage unit facility, gravel crunching beneath the tires as the car rolled to a stop. Above him, dark clouds obscured the moon, casting the whole complex in a murky darkness that seemed to swallow the weak security lights whole.
He glanced down at his phone, the screen's blue glow harsh against his face. His last message to Kendra still glowed on the screen, no reply yet.
Timestamp: Forty-two minutes ago.
Too long. Way too long for someone who texted back within minutes.
Something was wrong. 
He exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air, then stepped out of the car. A gust of wind sent a discarded food wrapper skittering across the pavement. Pulling his hoodie tighter around his shoulders, he scanned the lot—a scattering of units, all dark, all silent. A single security light flickered near the main gate, casting long, twitching shadows.
No sign of her car.
No sign of anything that suggested life.
His fingers moved on instinct, redialing her number. It rang once, then voicemail. 
"That's not like her," he muttered, slipping the phone into his pocket. "She wouldn't leave me hanging like this."
He made his way down the row, each step echoing his rising pulse. The narrow corridor between units felt like a throat, walls closing in, lined with rusted doors. The air smelled of motor oil and dust, with a faint undercurrent of mildew.
Unit 47A came into view, and his stomach dropped.
The padlock dangled open, swaying slightly in the breeze. The latch hung loose, crooked, as if someone had left in desperate haste. A thin strip of yellow paper fluttered from under the door, trapped and helpless.
He paused, his heart hammering against his ribs. The silence felt thick enough to choke on.
"Kendra?" he called out, his voice smaller than he'd intended.
The name hung in the air for a moment, then died.
His hand shook as he grabbed the handle and yanked the door up.
A metallic groan split the silence, echoing across the lot. 
He stepped inside, each footstep on concrete sounding like a countdown.
"Kendra?" he called again, voice cracking slightly on her name.
Silence pressed against his eardrums.
The place had been torn apart. Nothing useful. Nothing that explained why Kendra was gone.
"Dammit," he whispered.
He ran both hands through his hair, gripping tight enough to hurt. "What happened here, Ken? What did you find?"
His fists clenched until his nails bit crescents into his palms. She wouldn't just walk away. Not when her sister's life was hanging in balance.
She'd been trying to protect Lena, to find the truth about Mr. Stephen.
Now she might need protecting herself.
The reality crashed over him like ice water. For a moment he stood frozen, overwhelmed by possibilities—each scenario worse than the last, each one featuring Kendra hurt, scared, alone.
"No," he said firmly, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "Focus. She's not dead. She's smart. Focus."
He turned to shut the storage unit behind him. The metal door slammed with the finality of a coffin lid, the sound chasing him as he sprinted back to his car.
---
Brandon sped through the quiet streets, tires squealing as he took corners too fast, streetlights flashing across the windshield. Each flash illuminated his face—jaw clenched, eyes hard with determination and controlled fear. 
"Come on, Kendra. Tell me you left something behind."
When he reached her street, the familiar tree-lined avenue felt like stepping into a memory. Quiet suburban peace, porch lights glowing like beacons of safety.
He parked in Kendra's driveway. The yellow crime tape still fluttered in front of Stephen's porch. "Poor man," he whispered.
He leaped out and ran to the door.
No car in the driveway. No movement behind the sheer curtains. 
He didn't bother knocking. Instead, he went straight to the keypad beside the door, his fingers hovering over the numbers. Would the code still be the same? It had been years since they'd spoken regularly.
But he knew Kendra. Habits died hard with her.
Her badge number—4027—and her sister's birth year—1998.
He typed it in, the buttons cold beneath his fingertips, each beep sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet street.
Click.
The lock disengaged with a soft electronic chirp.
"Still predictable, Ken," he whispered, a ghost of a smile crossing his face before vanishing again.
He stepped inside, and the scent hit him immediately—primerose. 
"Kendra?" he called, just in case. "It's Brandon. You here? Please be here."
Silence answered him, broken only by the soft hum of the refrigerator.
The living room was spotless, almost museum-like in its perfection. In the kitchen, a coffee mug rested in the sink, a thin film of residue inside suggesting it had been there for hours.
Too neat. Too still. Too much like a life interrupted mid-sentence.
But her desk—that was chaos incarnate.
He moved toward it with growing urgency, scanning the scattered papers, manila files, yellow sticky notes covered in her tight handwriting. Crime scene photos were pinned to a corkboard above the desk, connected by red string. A half-eaten protein bar lay abandoned beside a stack of photographs.
His attention was caught by the thick manila folder resting on the table, partially open as if Kendra had just stepped away. 
He picked it up and leafed through. In the very center, a leather-bound diary, small enough to fit in a coat pocket, edges frayed.
Next to it, a white folded paper with a name scribbled on the front in loopy cursive handwriting that definitely wasn't Kendra's precise script.
Brandon hesitated, his fingertips brushing the edge of the paper. This felt like crossing a line, reading someone else's final words. But Kendra was missing, and answers might be the only thing that could bring her home.
He unfolded the paper. A letter.
"Kendra,
I'm sorry I couldn't tell you this in person. I didn't want to put you in trouble. But I can't keep enduring it anymore. I've seen too much, and I don't want to be part of it anymore.
You'll find everything you need in the storage unit. I trust you'll do the right thing.
—Stephen."
Brandon exhaled shakily, his hands trembling as he gripped the paper tighter, reading the words again and again.
He picked up the diary next. The binding cracked slightly as he opened it, the pages smelling of dust and something medicinal. The first entries were harmless—daily thoughts, mentions of his garden, minor complaints about life. But within pages, it turned darker.
Headaches. Tremors. Sleepless nights. Then, stranger still—loss of time. Blackouts. Nightmares of being watched. Unnatural hunger.
"Jesus…" Brandon whispered, flipping faster, scanning the increasingly erratic handwriting.
Then came the hallucinations. The paranoia. The erratic scribbles in the margins.
March 3 – Took one pill. Felt lightheaded and had a strange craving for sugar. Ate almost an entire box of cookies. Not like me at all.
March 5 – Headache after an hour. Felt paranoid. Like someone was watching. Checked locks twice before bed.
March 10 – Tried skipping a dose. Felt better, but pain returned. Took it again. Hungry again. Something's not right.
March 15 – Told Lena and Kendra this stuff messes with my mind. Lena brushed it off. Kendra seemed unconcerned. Don't want to worry them.
March 18 – Heard something outside. Am I hallucinating? Footsteps in the garden at 2 AM. No one there when I checked.
"Shit!" Brandon barked, slamming the diary shut. He grabbed his phone, tried Kendra again.
Straight to voicemail.
"Dammit, Kendra, where the hell are you?" he muttered, pacing the room now. He turned the notebook over, scanning the back cover. More scribbles.
His heart sank.
"This wasn't just some clinic mistake. This was deliberate," he said aloud. "They were testing people. Drugging them. And now…"
And now Kendra had found out.
And someone had made sure she disappeared.
He looked around her apartment one last time. The faint glow of her laptop. The file folders. The coffee mug in the sink. The scent of her still lingering in the air.
She had left him a trail.
And he would follow it—wherever it led.
Even into hell.
He grabbed his phone, snapped photos of the diary and letter, then turned toward the door. On impulse, he grabbed the framed photo from her bookshelf—Kendra from the academy graduation, smiling.
"Come on, Kendra," he murmured, the frame cold against his fingers. "Just hold on. I'm coming for you this time."
The weight of what he had found crackled in his heart as he stepped out into the night.