**Chapter Ten: The Voices in the Dark**
The whispers weren't just sounds—they were *alive.*
They slithered up the stairwell, curling around Luna's ankles like smoke, sinking into her skin. The cold inside her chest pulsed in response, a sickening rhythm that matched the murmurs below.
*Luna…*
*You came back…*
*Help us…*
The girl—*their* girl, the one without a name—let out a choked sob. "They're *inside* me," she gasped, clutching her head. "I can *feel* them."
John's grip on his gun was white-knuckled. His eyes flicked between the stairs leading up to freedom and the abyss below, where the voices thickened like a gathering storm.
"We can't go down there," he said, voice low and urgent. "Not now. Not without backup."
Luna wanted to agree. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to leave this cursed place behind. But the cold in her chest *pulled*, like an anchor dragging her toward the dark.
And then she realized—it wasn't just the lost souls calling her.
It was *herself.*
The part of her that had *died.*
The part Voss had tried to erase.
She turned to John, her voice barely audible over the rising whispers. "He didn't just put them in comas. He *cut* something out of them. Out of *me.*"
The nameless girl whimpered, pressing her hands to her temples. "There's a hole. I can't remember, but I *know* it's gone—"
A crash echoed from the hallway behind them.
*They were coming.*
John cursed, grabbing Luna's arm. "We *leave.* Now."
But the girl didn't move. She stared down into the dark, tears streaking her face.
"I have to find it," she whispered. "I can't live with this *nothing* inside me."
And before anyone could stop her—
She ran.
Down the stairs.
Into the dark.
Luna didn't think. She *moved.*
John's shout chased after her as she lunged for the girl, boots slipping on the rusted steps. The air grew thicker, heavier, the whispers swelling into a chorus of fractured voices—
*You're like us.*
*You're broken too.*
*He took it, he took it, he took it—*
Luna caught the girl's wrist just as they hit the bottom landing. The door loomed in front of them—thick steel, like the one upstairs, but older. Rust bleeding from its hinges. A keypad, long dead, its wires ripped out.
And scrawled across it in peeling paint, a single word:
**RECLAIM.**
The girl's fingers dug into Luna's arm. "It's in there," she breathed. "I *know* it is."
Behind them, John skidded to a stop, gun raised toward the stairs above. "They're coming. *We don't have time—*"
Luna ignored him. She shoved against the door.
It didn't budge.
The whispers crescendoed, clawing at her skull. The girl was crying now, her nails drawing blood from Luna's skin.
"*Please,*" she begged. "I can't be empty anymore."
Luna didn't know why she did it.
She pressed her palm to the door.
And the cold inside her *surged.*
A shockwave of ice and static ripped through her veins. The door groaned, then—
*Click.*
It slid open.
The room beyond was pitch-black.
And then, all at once—
*Light.*
Dozens of glass tanks lined the walls, glowing faintly blue. Suspended inside them were *shapes.* Human, but not. Writhing. *Alive.*
Luna's breath left her in a rush.
Because she *recognized* them.
They were the missing pieces.
The stolen souls.
And in the center of the room, connected to a tangled web of wires and tubes, stood Dr. Elias Voss.
He turned, smiling.
"Ah," he said softly. "You found my collection."
Then the lights went out.
And the screaming began.