RHO-SYNTHETICSv1-009

The door is locked from the outside. He has the files. You have the clock.

The air inside the room carries the scent of scorched dust from the heating vents. The walls are painted an institutional beige, peeling slightly near the baseboards where moisture has trapped itself under the plaster. A heavy steel door remains flush against its frame, the deadbolt thrown from the corridor side. On the table sit a manila folder, three iron paperclips, and a black ballpoint pen with a chewed cap. The silence is broken only by the rhythmic vibration of an intake fan somewhere deep within the ceiling grid.