The Corridor Trap

“Every hallway looks the same until you realise one wrong step can turn it from a passage into a prison.”

Returning to Glenda's examination room, I emerged from the Portal with my heart already racing. The swirling colours collapsed behind me, and I stood once again in the space I'd left only minutes before.

The room was still empty, the door still closed. Small mercy. But beyond that door, the practice continued its busy afternoon rhythm. I could hear it all—the murmur of conversations, phones ringing at reception, footsteps in the corridor, the distant sound of a child crying in the waiting room. The building was alive, full of people going about ordinary business whilst I prepared to commit what amounted to burglary.

Glenda's map was crumpled in my pocket, scrawled in hurried lines but clear enough. Ten metres to the right. The supply room. The asterisked items that could mean the difference between Jamie's recovery and his death.

I pressed my ear against the smooth surface of the door, the wood cool against my skin. Every nerve in my body braced, waiting for the scrape of shoes or the low murmur of voices that would spell disaster. The corridor sounds filtered through—impossible to tell if anyone was directly outside, if the path was clear or blocked.

Relief and dread tangled inside me. For now, no one had discovered Glenda's absence—or if they had, they weren't looking in this room. But that could change at any moment.

I looked down at the paper clenched in my hand. Ten metres. That was all. Ten metres that felt both absurdly close and impossibly far, with a corridor full of potential witnesses between here and there.

My eyes lifted toward the door, picturing the hallway beyond. I knew the layout from my earlier arrival as a patient—doors stretching along both sides, each one a potential threat, each handle a reminder that someone could step out at any second. The bathrooms loomed halfway down. The reception desk sat at the far end, staffed and watchful.

I flexed my hands, palms damp, the clamminess already seeping through the denim of my jeans as I rubbed them dry. My body betrayed me even as I fought to steady it. One wrong movement, one nervous glance too many, and I would draw attention.

I forced myself still. One breath in. One breath out.

I reminded myself of the why—that every step wasn't just about risk but about purpose. These weren't mere supplies. They were lifelines, hope compressed into bottles and boxes. They could tip the scales back at the tent, change the outcome of the story being written there. Jamie's story. Our story. The story I refused to let end in tragedy.

The weight of it bore down on me, but rather than buckle, I straightened my shoulders, my resolve stiffening with it. Whatever fear whispered in my ear, the mission mattered more.

With a final mental brace, I eased the handle down and inched the door open. The latch released with a soft click that reverberated in my head like a gunshot, far louder in my heightened state of awareness than it could ever have been in reality.

I slipped out into the corridor, the air immediately different—charged with the presence of others, the ambient noise of a working practice. The hallway stretched before me, not empty but momentarily clear, its sterile surfaces bathed in the thin spill of fluorescent light.

At the far end, I could see Michelle at the reception desk, her head bent over paperwork. A patient sat in one of the waiting chairs, flipping through a magazine. Somewhere nearby, a door opened and closed, footsteps retreating.

For a moment, reprieve washed over me—an illusion of safety. The supply room lay ahead, its door visible from here, tantalisingly close. Ten metres. Ten careful metres.

I allowed myself a breath of cautious optimism. I could do this. Walk naturally, like I belonged here, like I was simply a patient looking for the bathroom or stretching his legs after a long appointment. No one would question—

"Mr. Smith."

The voice cut through the corridor. Female, clear, steady—coming from the reception desk.

My heart jolted violently, catapulting into my throat. Michelle had looked up from her paperwork. She was watching me, her expression politely curious but undeniably focused.

A surge of adrenaline tore through me, every instinct screaming to bolt, to abandon composure and dash for the supply room's sanctuary before confrontation could tighten its grip. My muscles coiled, ready to spring.

Run. Now. Before she can—

But amid the torrent of panic, reason forced itself through. They have no reason to suspect you. The thought pressed hard, steadying me. You belong here, at least in appearance. You've given them nothing to doubt. The voice inside tried to soothe me, though my nerves rattled against it.

I was a patient. I'd been called from the waiting room. I'd had an appointment with Dr. De Bruyn. As far as anyone knew, that appointment had simply run long, and now I was... what? Looking for the bathroom? Getting some air?

I turned, pulling on the mask of calm. My face arranged itself into composure even as my heart thundered so loudly I feared it might be audible. "Yes?" My voice surprised me—steady, measured, an imitation of ease that bore little resemblance to the tempest raging beneath my skin.

Michelle didn't move from her post, her gaze sharp enough to feel like it pierced the short stretch of hallway between us. "Have you just come out of Dr. De Bruyn's room?"

On the surface, her tone was casual, but the words lodged in me like accusation. My mouth was dry, tongue thick and uncooperative. I forced the reply, careful, even. "Ahh... yes."

The admission burned, tasting like ash as it left me. Doubt swarmed instantly. Was that too much? Too quick? Should I have added more? Every syllable replayed in my head, dissected and questioned in real time.

Ahh. That hesitation. That damned hesitation. Would she read guilt into it? Would she wonder why a simple question had made me pause?

Then came her response, brisk and practical, cutting through the tightness of the moment. "I realised that I passed Glenda the wrong file by mistake. Just wait there and I'll bring your file up."

Relief and suspicion collided inside me. No edge of mistrust laced her voice, no suspicion colouring her words. Just routine, straightforward administrative work. An unexpected lifeline.

The wrong file. Of course. Paperwork error, the kind that happened a hundred times a day in practices like this. Nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with Portals or disappearances or stolen credentials.

"Okay," I murmured, forcing the word into evenness. I tucked my damp palms behind my back, hiding the sweat slicking them, concealing the trembling tension that refused to leave my body.

On the surface, I stood in calm acceptance. But behind my eyes, the plan was already building itself: wait here, take the file, return to Glenda's room as though everything were in order. No rush, no suspicion. If I could manage that—mask the urgency, temper the nerves—she would have no reason to step inside and discover the truth of that empty room.

Straightforward. Achievable. And yet, every second felt like the slow turn of a blade against my ribs.

Driven by some subconscious reflex to appear harmless, I drifted down the corridor, steps measured, as though the simple act of walking towards the reception desk could soften any suspicion. It seemed logical at the time: approach her, present myself as open, cooperative, eager even. People trusted those who didn't shy away. Distance, after all, could be misread as concealment.

But the illusion of logic unravelled almost at once.

Her voice carried, hushed yet sharp enough to slice through the ambient noise of the practice. "I've asked him to wait down the corridor. How far away are you?"

The words slid into my ears like ice water, chilling, invasive. I froze mid-step, my body stiffening before instinct urged me back into stillness, a rabbit caught in the open.

She was on the phone. Speaking to someone about me. About me.

The silence that followed was unbearable, stretched tight as though the building itself were holding its breath. My skin prickled. I strained to catch more, to decipher who might be on the other end—police? Security?

When her voice resumed, it landed like the snap of a wire pulled too tight.

"Okay. I'll keep him distracted."

"Shit," I hissed, barely more than breath. The syllable escaped before I could stop it, a reflex as primal as the fear that now knotted in my gut. My heart kicked violently against my ribs, each beat a frantic warning drum.

Keep him distracted. Those words echoed in my skull, ricocheting off the walls of my mind. This wasn't routine anymore. This wasn't administrative work. This was a trap, and I'd walked straight into it.

Who was she speaking to? My thoughts fractured, tumbling into half-formed scenarios. The police—had they been tipped off, waiting in the wings to drag me out for questioning I couldn't possibly survive? Someone would ask where Dr. De Bruyn was. Someone would check her examination room and find it empty. Someone would demand to know what I'd been doing in there alone.

Or was this something darker, someone bound up in Joel's death, threads of his murder still reaching out to entangle me? The Fox Order, perhaps—the same organisation that had sent Pierre's desperate warning, the same shadowy network that had forced Glenda to flee through the Portal.

And then came the question that chilled me most: why her? Why Michelle, the benign face of routine, tangled in whispers of deception? Her role, her calm efficiency—were they all a mask? Had she been playing a part all along, her presence less an innocent fixture and more a sentinel watching over the comings and goings of people like me?

My palms grew slick, my throat dry. Every ordinary surface of the corridor seemed suddenly hostile—the doors, the tiles, the fluorescent lights glaring down like interrogators. Patients sat in the waiting room, oblivious. A nurse emerged from another examination room, chart in hand, not even glancing my way. The practice continued its ordinary business whilst I stood frozen in the centre of a trap I couldn't see the edges of.

The plan I had carried so carefully in my mind—a neat path of patience, retrieval, retreat—suddenly appeared childish, brittle. Naïve. I had imagined control where there was none. Every step now felt like moving through a web whose strands tightened invisibly around me.

Yet even as fear and suspicion churned in a relentless spiral, one truth rose above the rest: I couldn't afford to falter. Whatever her game, whatever shadows lurked at the edges of this place, I had to remain composed.

It was the only armour I had left.

My resolve stiffened, brittle but unyielding, as I turned away from reception and moved back down the corridor.

Glenda's examination room came back into view, its door still closed. A temptation as seductive as it was dangerous. I could step through, vanish into Clivilius, and leave this tightening snare behind.

But my hand stilled on the handle.

The thought of Jamie held me rooted. His face—pale, clammy, twisted in pain—burned itself into my mind, more vivid than any fear of discovery. His life didn't stretch into weeks or even days without the supplies I'd been sent to secure. Hours. His survival could be measured in hours.

The knowledge pressed against me like a weight I could neither shrug off nor shift. It anchored me where I stood, tethered me to my mission despite every instinct pulling the other way. My chest ached with it, but I couldn't deny the truth: whatever the risk, whatever trap might be tightening around me, turning away now wasn't an option.

With a deep, steadying breath, I made my decision. There was no room left for dithering. The stakes were stark, and though every fibre of me craved the simplicity of retreat, the path forward was the only one I could live with. If Jamie's life could be measured in hours, then hesitation was betrayal. My choice was made.

But the corridor itself seemed to conspire against me.

An eerie sensation rolled over my skin, subtle at first, then sharp enough to drag every nerve to alertness. The hairs on my arms prickled upright, and the breath in my lungs caught. It was a feeling I knew too well—a precursor, uncanny and disorienting, to the extraordinary.

The fluorescent lights above flickered, sputtering in uneven rhythms that painted the walls with jerking, ghostly shadows. The sterile corridor warped under the tremor of their faltering glow, its surfaces suddenly sinister, as though something unseen had passed just out of sight. A chill crept up my spine, not imagined, but visceral, instinctual—recognition of a force that did not belong entirely to this world.

A patient in the waiting room looked up, frowning at the flickering lights. The nurse paused mid-stride, glancing at the ceiling. But they didn't understand what they were seeing. They couldn't.

My heart skipped, then surged into a violent rhythm. I knew this sensation. I had felt it every time I engaged my Portal Key: that faint ripple in the fabric of reality, the invisible vibration that came just before the threshold opened.

Someone else was using a Portal Key. Nearby. Right now.

Compelled by equal parts paranoia and need, my eyes drifted to the bathroom door. Something about it drew me—the faint murmur of voices threading their way into the air. Unable to resist, I edged closer, pressing my ear against the cool surface. The world shrank to a single point of focus: the voices within.

"We've been compromised. It's the fox again," a gruff male voice growled. The words seeped through the wood like poison. My breath caught, skin prickling.

It wasn't Cody. That much I knew immediately. His cadence, his energy—absent. This voice was different. Harder. And that difference was more unsettling than comfort could have been.

The revelation bled into me with an icy inevitability. There were others. Guardians, perhaps—people like us, wielding the same uncanny means of stepping between worlds. The very thought that my clandestine fight for survival might intersect with theirs chilled me deeper than the sterile tiles under my feet.

A second voice joined, lower but no less tense, its words laced with decisive finality: a call to retreat. The brevity carried its own sharpness, an implicit acknowledgement that time was up, that they were already being outmanoeuvred.

I froze, absorbing every syllable. Their conversation was cryptic, yes, but layered with urgency and implication. Whatever web I had stumbled into extended far beyond Jamie, beyond Glenda, beyond the fragile bubble I thought I was managing. This was bigger. Vast. I was merely a thread caught in a tapestry of intrigue.

My reverie splintered at once under Michelle's voice. "Mr. Smith." The words rang down the corridor, sharp and inescapable, dragging me back from the muffled voices behind the bathroom door.

My pulse hammered in my ears. I turned slowly, caught in the crossfire between two opposing pulls: the unseen threat lurking just metres away, and the very visible summons that carried its own brand of menace.

The supply room loomed ahead, the promise of salvation for Jamie almost within reach, yet it felt impossibly distant as indecision rooted me to the spot. My chest tightened, breath coming shallow, the weight of two choices pressing down with crushing force.

"Could I see you for a moment, please?" Michelle called again. The words were harmless enough, but I heard the undertone, the subtle pressure behind them. "It'll only take a moment," she added, her voice urging, her hand gesturing.

Other patients looked up now, their attention drawn by the exchange. A nurse paused to watch. The practice's ordinary business had shifted, its focus narrowing onto me.

Then something else caught me—Michelle's nervousness. A flicker in her eyes, a tension in her posture. She wasn't as composed as she wanted me to believe. That crack in her façade was a signal I seized on, a glimmer of vulnerability that hardened my resolve. If she wasn't unshakeable, then perhaps I wasn't cornered.

I shoved myself away from the bathroom door, cutting short the dangerous allure of eavesdropping further. The supply room called, louder than her summons, louder than my fear. Jamie's life tipped the scales—everything else had to fall away.

But as I pushed into motion, my body betrayed me. My left knee buckled with a sickening jolt, the old weakness striking at the worst possible moment. My balance collapsed beneath me. I pitched forward, arms shooting out instinctively, palms slamming hard onto the icy tiles. Pain ricocheted up my arms, but the impact did its job—it stopped the fall, jolting me upright with sheer stubborn momentum.

A collective gasp rose from the waiting room. Someone asked if I was alright. The nurse started toward me.

I used the attention, levering myself back into motion, waving off concern with a muttered "I'm fine" even as I pivoted into a desperate lunge. The supply room was no longer just a destination—it was escape, salvation, everything.

"Stop!" Michelle's voice split the air, sharper now, no longer dressed in courtesy. "Someone stop him!"

But stopping wasn't an option. I drove myself forward, my strides frantic, clumsy with urgency. Patients scattered. The nurse froze, uncertain whether to intervene.

I reached the supply room door at last, but my body betrayed me again. Sweat-slicked hands fumbled at the metal knob. My grip slipped off on the first attempt, leaving me clawing at it in panic. The slickness of my palms, the tremor in my fingers—it all fed the rising terror in my chest.

Leaning my weight against the door, I forced myself to draw in a breath that didn't shake. I wiped one slick palm against my thigh, then grasped the doorknob again, this time careful, deliberate. No room for haste. No room for mistakes.

The truth struck me then with a clarity that was almost cruel. Keys. I needed the bloody keys.

My hand shot into my pocket, retrieving the small bundle of metal. Their cool weight pressed into my skin, sharp against the fever heat of my palm. "Shit!"

Three keys. Only three. I had taken her keys along with her hospital ID, but I had no idea which one would fit this particular door. It should have felt simple, but simplicity dissolved in the grip of fear.

I urged myself to focus, to drown out the pounding of my heart, but my fingers betrayed me, slick with sweat, clumsy with urgency.

"He's down there."

Michelle's voice echoed along the corridor, each syllable landing like a hammer on brittle glass. Ominous. Cold. My stomach dropped even before I turned my head, already knowing what I would see.

Footsteps. Heavy, purposeful. Two officers, uniforms unmistakable, advancing fast through the waiting room. Patients scrambled out of their way. The gleam of their weapons spoke louder than any words, their presence stripping away every illusion of safety.

Police. Actual police. Here for me. Already on site, already summoned, already closing the trap.

I jammed the first key into the lock. It caught—but didn't turn. My heart plummeted, the denial cruel in its timing. I yanked it free, fumbling for the next, my hands trembling.

Commands sliced through the corridor—sharp, uncompromising. Orders to stop. To surrender. Their voices carried the weight of authority, but also something else: urgency, as though they weren't merely detaining me, but containing me.

The ambiguity twisted inside me. Were they just local law enforcement, pulled unwittingly into something they couldn't possibly comprehend? Or had the net already been cast wider—something orchestrated, deliberate, a force with knowledge of Clivilius itself? The thought iced my spine, magnifying the stakes beyond anything I had prepared for.

Then—a miracle.

The second key slid home, the tumblers clicking into alignment with a sound so sweet it rang like victory in my ears. A grin broke across my face, involuntary, born not of triumph but sheer relief. My body moved before thought caught up, thrusting the door wide and propelling myself through the narrow gap.

With a desperate yank, I slammed the door shut, the echo ricocheting through the confined space like a gunshot. My hand twisted the lock, securing it.

And then—darkness.

The rapid thuds of the officers' boots closed in, reverberating through the thin barrier that separated me from capture. Each strike was a countdown, pounding in time with the racing of my heart. My chest cinched tight as the door handle jerked violently, metal clanging in protest beneath the officer's grip. The rattling sound tore through me, a reminder of how fragile this sanctuary truly was.

Relief surged as the lock held firm. For the moment, I was safe. But even that comfort soured quickly, poisoned by the knowledge that it wouldn't last. Somewhere in this building, on some belt or in some drawer, there were keys that matched this door. Keys that could shatter my reprieve, transforming this pocket of safety into a cage.

My lungs burned. Sweat dripped into my eyes. I forced myself into action, hands fumbling against the wall. My fingers brushed cold plaster, then finally, blessedly, the smooth edge of a plastic switch.

The light snapped on with a harsh crackle, flooding the room in sterile brilliance. I winced, pupils contracting in protest, my eyes narrowing to slits until they adjusted. The sudden brightness made me feel exposed, as though the officers could now see through the door, their gazes cutting into me. But at least I could see.

As vision sharpened, relief mingled with urgency. The supply room stretched before me, nearly identical in scale to Glenda's examination room. That detail alone gave me a momentary surge of gratitude—it meant space to move, space to act.

Metal shelves towered up to the ceiling, crammed with boxes and labelled bottles. My eyes darted across rows of gauze, sterile packs, instruments sealed in plastic. Each shelf was order incarnate, and yet chaos to me—I didn't have the luxury of time to search carefully.

To my right, two bulky refrigeration units stood, humming faintly, their silvered surfaces dull under the fluorescent light. They loomed like silent sentinels, each promising unknown contents, perhaps the very things Jamie's survival depended upon—antibiotics, vials of something precious and rare.

Every second mattered. The officers outside were still there. Still trying. And the thin line of my safety could snap without warning.

Outside, muffled through the thick wood and metal, the officers' voices bled into the room. Their tones carried a restless edge, frustration sharpening their words.

"Get me another key," one demanded, the authority in his voice laced with irritation, as though the lock's resistance was a personal insult.

The other muttered something lower, the cadence suggesting impatience, his proposal clear enough even through the barrier—force the door, end the waiting.

But his suggestion was shot down with a pragmatic rebuff. The futility of damaging a reinforced door, the risk of drawing attention from the patients still in the practice, the time wasted on brute force—it all bled through in their terse exchange. To them, I was already cornered. Contained. A mouse trapped in a box.

The assumption sparked something reckless in me. A grin tugged at my lips, unbidden, wild. For a fleeting heartbeat, triumph flared through the panic. They thought they understood the game, believed they had mapped out the rules. But they didn't know the board I was playing on.

That ignorance was everything. It was my shield, my edge, my silent weapon. So long as I had my Portal Key, I had a way out they couldn't account for.

With Glenda's list clutched tight, its creased edges digging into my fingertips, I felt the faintest thread of focus return. The tasks were defined now, tangible. Just half a dozen items, all marked with asterisks. Manageable. My pulse still thundered against my ribs, but the clarity steadied me enough to move.

I swept across the room with purpose, eyes snapping from label to label, shelf to shelf. I forced myself to follow the order exactly, knowing haste could breed mistakes. Each item I plucked free felt like progress measured in lifelines.

The shelves transformed from background clutter into a trove. Each row whispered of possibilities: rows of sterile packs, sealed vials, diagnostic tools. The refrigeration units hummed steadily to my right, sentinels keeping their secrets cold. I opened them, hands shaking as I rifled through box after box. Medications, vaccines, labelled bottles I couldn't even begin to process—so many chances at salvation for needs I hadn't yet imagined.

And so I widened my net. Beyond Glenda's asterisks, I grabbed anything that looked remotely useful. Ointments, gloves, syringes, saline bags. The bags grew heavier, the clinking of glass and rustle of packaging a fragile chorus that both reassured and unsettled me.

Then—the slip.

In my frantic reach, my hip knocked a broom that had been propped carelessly in the corner. It clattered against the floor with a hollow crash, the sound ricocheting off the walls like an accusation. I froze, chest heaving, ears straining for any response from the officers beyond the door.

"What was that?" one of them demanded.

"He's moving around in there. Where's that key?"

When no immediate assault came, I snatched the broom up, meaning only to set it aside. But as I held the long handle, an idea sparked with sudden force.

Above.

My eyes lifted to the ceiling tiles, blank and unremarkable, but concealing the void beyond. Forgotten, ignored—yet now, they beckoned. Could this be more than storage? Could it be an escape?

I dragged a table beneath the most promising tile, the scrape of its legs loud in the tense room. Clambering up, I raised the broom handle and prodded. The panel shifted with resistance, grinding against its frame before sliding askew.

A screeching protest echoed in the confined space, followed by a cascade of dust. Years of neglect rained down, gritty and choking, catching in my hair, stinging my eyes. I turned my face aside, coughing, my free hand shielding against the debris.

When the air cleared, I peered upward into the gap.

Darkness. A yawning, silent void above.

The metallic scrape of a key sliding into the lock ripped through the room, sharp and final. My entire body jolted with adrenaline. Time was gone. Options, gone.

My gaze darted across the room in a feverish sweep, hunting for an anchor point—any surface that could hold what I was about to conjure. The refrigeration unit at the back loomed tall, its silver bulk catching the light. Solid. It would have to do.

The Portal Key was already in my hand, its weight strangely comforting despite the panic coursing through me. My fingers tightened around it.

Light erupted against the cold refrigerator, blooming outward in a radiant burst. Colours spiralled and folded into one another, unfurling like some vast, celestial flower pressed against the mundane surface. My throat caught.

Urgency crushed down on me, every beat of my heart ticking away the seconds before that lock gave way.

There was no time to hesitate. I seized the bags—heavy with supplies, clinking faintly with glass and metal—and threw myself into the light.

The sensation hit instantly, the shift between worlds ripping through me in a rush of vertigo and exhilaration.

And then—impact.

I didn't wait—I couldn't. A sharp command in my mind, as instinctual now as breathing, and the Portal snapped shut behind me, the last flickers of colour extinguished before anyone could even glimpse what had been.

Silence.

I dragged in a breath of the arid air, the dust dry against my throat. My lungs fought for it, protesting with each heave. My chest burned. My hands shook. But I was here. I was safe.

Behind me, in that supply room in Hobart, the door would be swinging open right now. Officers would be pouring in, weapons drawn, expecting to find a cornered fugitive. And they would find nothing. An empty room. A disturbed ceiling tile. No explanation. No trace of where I'd gone.

Let them wonder. Let them search. Let them question every law of physics they thought they understood.

A sound bubbled up, incongruous and uncontrollable: a wry chuckle. It escaped before I could stop it, thin and ragged but real. Relief, hysteria, disbelief—it was all tangled in that sound.

"Well, that was a bit exciting," I muttered, the words half a joke, half a confession to the empty expanse that stretched around me.

The dust swirled gently in the heat, carrying my words into silence. My heart still pounded like it hadn't yet realised I was out of danger, but I forced another breath, willing myself steady. There was no time to collapse—not yet.

The mission wasn't finished.

Jamie still waited in the tent, still suffering, still counting on me to bring back what Glenda needed. The bags hung heavy on my shoulders, their contents clinking with promise.

I pushed myself upright, brushed the ochre dust from my knees, and began the walk back to camp.