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“I did.”

“People get lost looking for the bar,” I said. “You made it through two locked doors. That takes effort. That takes intent.”

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Above us, the crowd roared into applause. Dust fell from the ceiling rafters. The show was starting without me. I didn’t give a fuck.

They could wait.

Her gaze flicked toward the dark corridor behind me, then snapped back to my face. When she spoke, her voice dropped.

“What’s behind the red door?”

My amusement died instantly.

“What the fuck did you say?”

“The red door,” she repeated, louder this time.

I dropped my hand to my side. “You saw it?”

She nodded.

“Did you open it?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know.”

I stepped closer, closing the last inch between us. My chest nearly brushed hers. “You’re lying again.”

“I’m not⁠—”

“You came down here looking for something,” I said. “What was it?”

She hesitated. Then she whispered⁠—

“Someone.”

My chest tightened. “Who?”

“My sister.”

A scream tore through the corridor.

It wasn’t a staged shriek from upstairs. It came from the darkness behind the red door—a wet, guttural shriek that scraped the concrete, then cut off in a choking gasp.

Her head snapped toward the sound. Mine didn’t.

I recognized that voice. And I knew exactly where it came from.

“Go upstairs,” I said, shoving her toward the exit.

“What was that?”

“Now.”