The Silver Minute: Part 2

Thorne didn’t waste breath on an answer. The voice was calm, too calm. It belonged to someone who wasn’t in any danger, and who wanted Thorne to know it. Every instinct screamed trap.

He spun, low and fast, his hand already on the grip of the compact kinetic pistol holstered to his hip. The chamber was empty. The corridor was empty. The main vault chamber was utterly, unnervingly empty. The voice, however, still hung in the heavy, chilling air, seeming to emanate from nowhere and everywhere at once.

"Looking for me, Mr. Thorne?" the voice chuckled, a dry, academic sound. "I assure you, I'm quite comfortable."

Thirty seconds. The whine of the air purgers intensified. Thorne could feel the subtle pressure change in his ears, the first signs of the chamber rapidly depressurizing before the inert gas flooded in. He had to assume the voice was coming through hidden speakers, but that didn't explain the sealed door or the cocking weapon.

He scanned the vault walls, his tactical light sweeping across the polished steel and reinforced concrete. There. A faint, almost invisible seam above the main vault door, just large enough for a narrow, reinforced viewport. It was designed for observation, a hidden eye, not a physical entry point.

"I see you've found my perch," the voice said, amused. "Such an observant fellow. It's a shame your career is about to end so... gaspingly."

Thorne ignored the taunt. He had a new priority: escape. He scrambled to the main vault door, a steel behemoth, at least three feet thick. It was sealed tight. There had to be a manual override, a hidden panel, anything. He ran his gloved hands over the cold surface, searching for an imperfection, a concealed keyway, a pressure switch.

"Don't bother," the voice advised. "My associate bypassed the external controls the moment you stepped into my little trap. Even if you had the code, it's useless now. And speaking of useless, that little ceramic blank you brought is quite ingenious. But it's not going to breathe for you."

Ten seconds. Thorne's vision began to grey at the edges. His lungs burned. The air was thinning, becoming heavy, inert. He could feel the first tendrils of the gas, like invisible smoke, irritating his throat.

He slammed his fist against the reinforced viewport where the voice was coming from. The glass didn't even vibrate.

"You really are a persistent one, aren't you?" the voice mused, a hint of genuine admiration now. "A shame."

Suddenly, a small, circular panel on the vault door, unnoticed moments before, slid open with a soft hiss. Inside, a single, antique-looking silver key rested on a velvet cushion. It looked utterly out of place, an anachronism in this high-tech death trap.

"A parting gift," the voice said, losing its earlier amusement and taking on a cold, almost melancholic tone. "You wanted data, Thorne. Here’s a piece of it. That key opens a private collection, far from here. Think of it as a consolation prize. If you can get out."

Five seconds. Thorne gasped, his body screaming for oxygen. He reached for the key, but his hand was shaking violently. He knew it was a trick, a final, sadistic game. But what choice did he have? The silver key seemed to shimmer in the dying light, a singular point of focus against the encroaching darkness.

Then, a new sound, closer this time, ripped through the heavy silence. A metallic clink from the corridor, followed by a faint, rhythmic drip. It wasn't from the ventilation, or the observation deck. It was from within the vault itself. And it was getting closer.

Thorne tore his gaze from the key. His eyes, burning with oxygen deprivation, darted to the narrow gap beneath the main vault door. A thin, dark line was slowly spreading across the polished floor, accompanied by the smell of something sharp, almost acidic.

He had expected to suffocate. He hadn't expected to drown.