The corridor lights flickered as if they, too, were nervous. I shoved my shoulder into the metal door and felt it give with a reluctant screech, the sound travelling down the stairwell like a warning. Behind me, someone was running—fast, uneven footsteps, breath snagging—closing the distance one thud at a time.

“Lena!” my brother hissed from the darkness below. “Don’t—”

Too late.

My palm found the switch panel on the wall: a square of cheap plastic, warm from overuse. Someone had scrawled NO TOUCH in angry marker, the letters blurred by old sweat. I did not read it so much as feel it, the way you feel a bruise before you remember earning it.

I flipped the switch.