The Factory Where Blueprints Changed Each Day

I tell myself as I step through Black Marsh's gates that my job is numbers, not hauntings.

But even in daylight, the air feels too heavy, as though something ancient and chemical sours it.

I grip my field case tighter, fingerprints streaking the slick plastic as Lena Moritz and Carlos Reyes walk ahead.

Lena tugs her company badge close to her throat, shoulders prim with tension.

Carlos keeps glancing at the upper floors as if he expects an answer to drop from a window.

The factory's ruin is absolute.

Broken glass litters the cobbles, catching the thin, bruised sun and spraying sickly patterns over decayed brick.

We're here for structural assessment.

A final survey, tick the boxes, let demolition teams have their way.

That's the theory.

Lena, Black Marsh's corporate shepherd, insisted on an after-lunch walkthrough for legal reasons.

Carlos, city safety commissioner, claims he's only here as a favor but keeps a tight hand on his radio.

I'm just the forensic engineer, Halloran here to count columns, settle liability, go home.

But the factory's silence isn't empty, it's prepared.

Lena unlocks the doubled steel doors.

Inside, a blinding field of warped glass panels, some still clinging to rails above the old kiln hall, glints through the dust.

Carlos clears his throat, boots crunching over drifted safety tape.

He says, not loud enough for Lena, should still be condemned.

Place gives me nerves.

Lena's jaw flexes, but she ignores him.

Stay close, she says to me.

We've got to keep to mapped routes.

Her voice is business, but I see doubt swimming behind the strictly measured vowels.

The touch of her left hand trembles against her phone.

It never leaves her palm.

I tell myself as I step through Black Marsh's gates that my job is numbers, not hauntings.

But even in daylight, the air feels too heavy, as though something ancient and chemical sours it.

I grip my field case tighter, fingerprints streaking the slick plastic as Lena Moritz and Carlos Reyes walk ahead.

Lena tugs her company badge close to her throat, shoulders prim with tension.

Carlos keeps glancing at the upper floors as if he expects an answer to drop from a window.

The factory's ruin is absolute.

Broken glass litters the cobbles, catching the thin, bruised sun and spraying sickly patterns over decayed brick.

We're here for structural assessment.

A final survey, tick the boxes, let demolition teams have their way.

That's the theory.

Lena, Black Marsh's corporate shepherd, insisted on an after-lunch walkthrough for legal reasons.

Carlos, city safety commissioner, claims he's only here as a favor but keeps a tight hand on his radio.

I'm just the forensic engineer, Halloran here to count columns, settle liability, go home.

But the factory's silence isn't empty, it's prepared.

Lena unlocks the doubled steel doors.

Inside, a blinding field of warped glass panels, some still clinging to rails above the old kiln hall, glints through the dust.

Carlos clears his throat, boots crunching over drifted safety tape.

He says, not loud enough for Lena, should still be condemned.

Place gives me nerves.

Lena's jaw flexes, but she ignores him.

Stay close, she says to me.

We've got to keep to mapped routes.

Her voice is business, but I see doubt swimming behind the strictly measured vowels.

The touch of her left hand trembles against her phone.

It never leaves her palm.