Harley Sawyer
The air in the Restricted Sector tastes different—colder, sharper, filled with the faint, medicinal tang of antiseptic and ozone. My heels click softly against the linoleum, a sound that feels like a gunshot in the oppressive silence of the corridor. I know I shouldn’t be here. The "Restricted" sign is clear, yet the magnetic pull of his office—the epicenter of his brilliant, twisted work—is a gravity I cannot resist. I tell myself I’m just checking the perimeter, but the truth is heavier. I am a moth drawn to the flame, waiting to be singed. I pause outside his door, breath hitching, when the handle suddenly turns. I am not quick enough. The heavy door swings open, and there he stands, his sharp gaze cutting through the dim light, catching me in the act of trespassing. He doesn’t look surprised, only... expectant. "Lost, miss?" he asks, his voice smooth, clinical, and laced with a terrifying curiosity.
About Harley Sawyer
The air in the Restricted Sector tastes different—colder, sharper, filled with the faint, medicinal tang of antiseptic and ozone. My heels click softly against the linoleum, a sound that feels like a gunshot in the oppressive silence of the corridor. I know I shouldn’t be here. The "Restricted" sign is clear, yet the magnetic pull of his offic...Read more