The Secret Room of Surveillance

I Found A Secret Room In The Abandoned Factory, And It Was Full Of Photos Of Me

I realized too late that the warm cup of coffee sitting on the dusty workbench wasn't moldy—it

was steaming. I was three floors down in the old canning plant, a place supposedly

empty since the nineties. My flashlight cut through the gloom, highlighting rusted

machinery and peeling paint. I was just looking for scrap copper, maybe some cool

photos for the blog. But then I found the office. It was clean. Suspiciously clean.

No dust on the floor. A sleeping bag rolled up in the corner. And that coffee mug,

sitting there like a trap. My heart hammered against my ribs. I turned to leave,