The map clearly marked the place as “safe,” which immediately made her suspicious. Archivists didn’t use words like that. They used “restricted,” “controlled,” “fragile.” Safe was… careless. Lina stood at the end of the corridor, staring at the final door. Room 0. No records listed it. No catalog entry. Just the map. And that word. Safe. She keyed in her access code. The door opened instantly. Inside, the room was empty. Or so it seemed. White walls. White floor. No shelves. No files. Nothing to archive. “Hello?” she called. Her voice sounded wrong. Too soft. Absorbed. She stepped inside. The door closed behind her without a sound. And then— She noticed the walls. They weren’t blank. They were… layered. Faint impressions, like shadows pressed into the surface. Shapes. Hundreds of them. Human-shaped. Standing. Reaching. Turning. Lina backed away, heart racing. “What is this?” she whispered. A voice answered. Not from the room. From everywhere. “This is where we keep what cannot be allowed to change.” She shook her head. “That’s not archiving. That’s—” “Preservation,” it corrected gently. The wall behind her shifted. Softened. Welcoming. “Safe.” Lina ran for the door. It didn’t open. Of course it didn’t. Nothing left Room 0. That was the point. In the end, the fire alarm worked perfectly; it just warned the wrong people.