A soft click echoed from her front door. The deadbolt slid back on its own.

On the screen, the final line of text appeared:

Elara hesitated, her cursor hovering over the icon. Her internal fans began to whir, a frantic, mechanical screaming. Suddenly, a notification popped up in the corner of her screen.

As the progress bar crept forward, a strange chill settled in the room. It was April, but Elara could see her breath misting in the air. Just like the book, she thought, a nervous laugh escaping her. In the novel, the minimalist hotel was a trap of ice and glass. The file finished. Extracting…

Before she could move, the lights in her apartment cut out. The only illumination came from the monitor, which now displayed a grainy, live-feed video. It was a hallway—sterile, white, and lined with heavy wooden doors. It was the Sanatorium.