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The warehouse loomed on the horizon like a rusted corpse—massive, hollow, and forgotten by everyone except me. It wasn’t just any warehouse. This was the warehouse, the one the government ordered to be filled with Seraphin-laced products before pretending to destroy them. A monument to human denial, sealed away and left to rot while the world outside collapsed. The last pantry of a civilization too proud to admit it poisoned itself.

The sun was setting behind the jagged skyline, casting long shadows over the cracked asphalt and overgrown weeds that clawed at the edges of the forgotten loading docks. Each step felt heavier, like I was being pulled toward something I wasn’t supposed to see. The wind carried a faint metallic scent, mingling with the dry rot of long-forgotten cargo and the ghost of industry long dead. My stomach growled—half from hunger, half from dread.

"Hey, this is the place, right?"

"Unless there’s another top-secret government stockpile of biochemical doom nearby, yes. Coordinates match perfectly. Congratulations on arriving at humanity’s biggest walk-in coffin."

The gates were wide open, rusted clean through, hanging off their hinges like even metal had given up trying to contain what was inside. The chain that once kept them shut lay in pieces on the ground, covered in rust flakes like dried blood. Nearby, an old security booth sat collapsed in on itself, glass shards glittering in the fading light like tiny gravestones. I tightened my grip on my rifle and stepped past the threshold, every footfall echoing through the emptiness like a countdown I couldn’t hear.

I passed abandoned vehicles near the loading docks, some half-loaded with crates that never made it out. Tires deflated, windshields cracked, their drivers long gone—if they ever existed at all. A clipboard still hung from one truck’s door, the paper fused to the metal by rain and time, the ink bled into nothingness.

The main entrance to the warehouse was sealed with a heavy steel door, but years of neglect had left it warped and brittle. I ran my hand over the cold metal, feeling the indentations where desperation had left its mark. One good shove with Seraphin-enhanced strength, and it screeched open, the sound tearing through the silence like a scream that hadn’t been heard in years.

A yawning darkness greeted me, thick with the smell of dust, metal, mildew, and something sterile—like a hospital that had been abandoned mid-surgery, scalpels still bloody and trays left to rust. The air felt heavier here, like it remembered what had been stored within.

I clicked on my flashlight. The beam stretched across endless rows of shelves stacked high with boxes—untouched, pristine, like the apocalypse hadn’t dared to disturb this place. Each box stamped with the Caelum Pharmaceuticals logo, along with neat labels: "Fortified Cereals," "Nutrient Supplements," "Seraphin-Enhanced Hydration." The branding still cheerful, still promising a better tomorrow that never came. Some slogans still popped in bright colors: "Fuel for the Future!" and "Elevate Your Humanity!"

I passed a toppled display stand, its cardboard figure still smiling despite the collapse. A family-friendly mascot—"Sera the Seraphin Sprite"—grinned up at me from a bent sign, holding a bottle aloft like salvation in liquid form. I kicked it aside.

"They really did just... leave it all here," I muttered, my voice swallowed by the cavernous silence that seemed to mock me with every word.

"Efficiency was never humanity's strong suit," Her quip lingers in my ear. "Though hoarding your own doom does require a special kind of commitment. On the bright side, you won't starve anytime soon, assuming you don’t mind glowing in the dark eventually."

I moved deeper into the warehouse, weaving through aisles of forgotten salvation-turned-poison. The sound of my boots against the concrete floor was the only reminder that I was still alive. My flashlight flickered over stacks of canned food, bottled drinks, vacuum-sealed packages—all preserved indefinitely thanks to the very compound that doomed us. Some boxes had toppled over, spilling their contents like mechanical entrails across the floor.

It was surreal. A lifetime supply of everything I needed to survive, if you ignored the ticking time bomb infused into every bite and sip. Every label a reminder that survival came with a cost.

I cracked open a crate and pulled out a bottle. The label read like a corporate fever dream: "Now with DOUBLE the Seraphin! Unlock your true potential with every drop!" There was even a smiling family on the label, mid-laugh, frozen in time beneath a sky-blue banner.

"Yeah, that worked out great," I muttered, tossing it into my bag anyway. Starvation was still a worse option.

As I scavenged, I passed rows of promotional materials stacked alongside the food—banners, flyers, cardboard cutouts of smiling Caelum employees holding up Seraphin products like they were golden tickets to paradise. One banner still hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly in the stale air: "The Future is Here—And It’s Healthy!" Another one nearby had partially fallen, reading ominously: "The Future is He—"

I found children's toys too, cheap plastic figurines of "Super Sera," a superhero mascot designed to make kids beg their parents for more Seraphin snacks. Their painted smiles were chipped, their bright colors dulled by dust.

Deeper into the warehouse, I found something unexpected—a small office space, its glass walls miraculously intact amid the decay. A relic of administration in a place built for storage. The door was ajar, as if inviting me in…or daring me.

I pushed the door open and was greeted by the stale scent of paper and electronics long since powered down. Desks were cluttered with files, maps, and dusty monitors. Coffee cups still sat on the desks, their contents long since evaporated, leaving only dark stains—like tiny reminders of normalcy that had no place here.

"Hey, think you can wake this thing up?"

"If it’s connected to a backup power source, possibly. Flip a few switches and pray to whatever gods are still listening."

I flipped a few switches on the nearby panel, expecting nothing but disappointment. To my surprise, the computer flickered to life—dim, but alive. A relic that refused to die, much like me.

I plugged my phone into the computer with the charging cable I’ve been taking with me, for obvious reasons. Her interface appeared almost immediately, lines of code scrolling as she accessed whatever scraps of data remained.

"Interesting... There’s a directory here containing shipment logs, internal memos, and... encrypted correspondence flagged for executive access only."

"Executive access? That sounds promising."

"Or incriminating. I’ll begin decryption. This may take several hours. Perhaps longer if the ghosts here are feeling uncooperative."

I leaned back in the creaking office chair, eyes scanning the cluttered desk. Among the papers was a faded blueprint—not of the warehouse, but of another facility entirely. The Caelum Pharmaceuticals Research Center. There were handwritten notes scribbled in the margins. “Transfer remaining samples to Research Center. Dr. Hale’s orders.”

"Hey, this blueprint—it’s pointing to the research center. Looks like they moved more than just food."

"Noted. Once I’ve finished here, we’ll have coordinates. Rest while you can."

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure rest was possible anymore. I gathered what supplies I could carry—food, water, a few strange vials labeled only with serial numbers, and settled into the corner of the office, rifle within reach.

The computer’s glow cast long shadows across the room as Her worked in silence, peeling back the layers of Caelum’s secrets one encrypted file at a time. The hum of its fans was the only sound, like a mechanical heartbeat in a place long pronounced dead.

I let my eyes drift shut, the blueprint clutched in my hand, and for the first time in weeks, I felt something dangerously close to hope. Maybe the next destination wouldn’t just be another grave.

Maybe this time, I’d find more than just ghosts.