Kilos Barba ran into the warehouse. This had been an abandoned place for years.
"Why are they after me?" Kilos Barba was deeply disturbed and immensely frustrated by the relentless hunt for him. Outside, the military had recently intensified efforts to conscript young teenagers into the armed forces.
The thunderous sound of hurried boots broke into the building, careless and overwhelming. It was the soldiers—they were everywhere. This particular squad had tracked him to this hideout, and their intent to apprehend him was unwavering.
"Find that stupid boy! Tell him his nation needs him!" barked the officer in charge. He commanded the soldiers to search frantically, and with such an order issued, there was no way they would leave without Kilos.
Kilos heard everything the officer said and was seized with fear.
"I don't think this is just about the nation. Sergeant Lucas must have something more—something secret and sinister—he's searching for."
The military had long harbored a reputation for hidden agendas among the people. Some parents might have willingly let their sons join the forces, if not for the disturbing, experimental revelations disclosed by those who had returned from service.
"Turn everywhere upside down and send Kilos to me!" Lucas's voice roared again, chasing after the men already busy with the first command.
The clamor of boots striking iron sheets echoed through the vast structure. The scattered sheets, remnants from the warehouse's original owner, served as both a warning and a trap—sometimes revealing the trail of pursuing soldiers, other times exposing Kilos himself, making it hard to remain hidden.
There was an oil spill across the surface of the floor, another remnant of the warehouse's previous life. Upon reaching it, Kilos began tiptoeing cautiously, trying not to plant his entire foot on the slick surface. He moved with extreme care, conscious that a single slip could give him away or worse.
Darkness swallowed the interior of the building, slowing the soldiers as they attempted to adjust to the dim light. Kilos's sharp eyes located a small drum, and he dove toward it, pressing himself against its curve, breathing heavily, trying to make no sound.
Beams of torchlight sliced through the shadows. Despite it being broad daylight outside, a strange gloom enveloped the warehouse—making the interior feel like twilight, silent and watchful.
"What should I do if I'm found?" That question flooded his thoughts. He had not yet been discovered, but one of his deepest weaknesses was his mind's ability to conjure fear. Kilos always feared that if he let his thoughts drift toward something dreadful, it would come to pass.
"Get off," he muttered, mentally swiping away the thought of defeat. He focused instead on his strengths. He had to be sharp—had to think. He had to remain optimistic, believing firmly that he would escape alive and unscathed.
But the threatening voice returned, louder this time, ringing in his ears:
"Surrender yourself now, or—"
Kilos clenched his teeth, annoyed.
"Or what?" he snapped aloud, not realizing his voice had risen above a whisper. The words escaped his lips with more volume than he intended. The soldiers heard him, and they turned sharply toward his hiding spot.
Three beams of light converged on his face at once. He had been found. But he had not yet made up his mind to surrender. Rising to his feet, he prepared to make a dash for it, but a sudden command stopped him in his tracks.
"Do you want to die for nothing?"
Die.
This was not the first time he had heard the word. But today, it was different—it came from a man with a weapon pointed directly at him. That singular difference could determine whether he would remain or bolt. The warning was delivered with such gravity, it struck every nerve in his body with chilling clarity.
Kilos raised his hands slowly, as commanded, but his heart screamed resistance. The three soldiers advanced toward him, still not slowing. He knew what would follow—they would seize his arms, wrench them behind his back, force his head down, and slap the cold metal cuffs onto his wrists, stripping him of any defense.
His eyes darted back to the drum. It still contained some of its slick contents—oil. With a sharp, deliberate motion, he gave it a hard shove. Oil splashed and spread across the floor like a trap set for prey.
"Why did you do that? Are you trying to be difficult?" the first officer growled, clearly irked. He glanced at the others, expecting them to react. But they remained silent, though the expressions on their faces promised violence.
"This boy will learn what it means to provoke an officer," the first officer muttered, striding forward.
The other two men followed closely. But the lead soldier's foot slipped—he fell hard, hitting the second officer beside him. The sudden collapse created a chain reaction as the second tried and failed to stabilize himself.
"This is your game plan, you brat!" the first officer spat, planting a foot to recover. Though he still held his gun, his trembling hands betrayed his shaken focus.
As if propelled by desperation, Kilos lunged forward and landed a hard kick across the officer's face. The man crumpled without a sound. Before him, all three soldiers now lay sprawled—dead, unconscious, or incapacitated.
"I am in trouble," Kilos whispered, his pulse pounding. If the soldiers were dead, he would be branded a murderer. A civilian responsible for the death of soldiers—he would be declared an enemy of the state.
Wasting no time, he dragged their bodies one by one into the shadows, out of sight—before Sergeant Lucas had a chance to return.
But Lucas never came, not immediately.
Kilos ran to the door—the same entrance he had used to flee into the warehouse. He gripped the handle and pushed with all his might. It didn't move.
"Is it what I'm thinking? Did Lucas lock us in?" Panic began to claw at him as he wrestled with the door. He shoved harder. He kicked and rammed, but nothing changed. There was no one outside. No sound. Nothing.
"He could've gone after other boys too," Kilos reasoned aloud, trying to keep his fear at bay. But he had to find a way out before the soldiers woke.
He was only sure of the man he had struck directly. The first two—he couldn't say if they were still alive. When they fell, the impact was terrible.
Lucas would undoubtedly return—and when he did, he would find both victims and the accused.
Mad with frustration, Kilos threw his light frame at the door again. Still, it held firm.
"There's no way out of this place unless Lucas returns."
His eyes caught sight of a dormant machine with two long iron bars at its front. Once used for lifting heavy objects, it now hung in limbo—its bars suspended midway between the ground and the ceiling, as though the last operator had abandoned it mid-task.
Kilos made his way toward it, curiosity piqued.
"What could have happened to these people?" he wondered, stooping beneath a thick chain to examine the long-forgotten machinery.
Driven by instinct, he yanked at the chain several times, but it wouldn't move. Looking around, he spotted a large bottle nearby. He grabbed it, hoping it contained something useful. As he examined it, a sudden footstep echoed behind him. Alarmed, he hurled the bottle aside and turned swiftly to see—
Nothing.
But the moment of fear revealed another room beyond—a large space, dimly lit and beckoning.
Cautiously, he moved toward the room. Then, again—a footstep, behind him this time. He spun around, breath held.
"Could someone be following me? Have the officers woken up?"
He bolted into the lonely room ahead, expecting to hear further pursuit. But silence prevailed. No steps followed.
"I'm imagining things," he told himself, pressing a hand to his head. He shook off the fear. Now was not the time for panic.
This new room was vast and eerily silent, scattered with desks and upturned chairs. A different silence filled this space—one of abandonment, of history long buried.
"Why was this... abandoned?" he muttered.
Just then, a piece of paper fluttered down in front of him. A gust of wind carried it from one of the old desks.
"What's that?" he asked, suspicion flickering through him. His instincts screamed that this was no ordinary occurrence.
If anything in this place was going to be blown about, it should have happened long before. The timing was wrong—eerily wrong.
He stepped back and pressed himself against a tall, dust-covered bookshelf.
Then came the footstep again—closer this time. It echoed with undeniable clarity.
"Who's that?" he shouted, his voice echoing in the cavernous room, his eyes darting around, desperate to find what—or who—was there.