Stand Alone

The air in the long, sterile corridor hung heavy with the scent of stale disinfectant and forgotten ambition. It was exactly as McKenzie remembered: the light grey walls scarred with countless dirty marks, the once-white floor a tapestry of muddy footprints. Utterly deserted, it echoed with a silence that was both comforting and unsettling.
She walked with a practiced, almost silent grace, her fingers brushing against the cold, unforgiving surface of the wall. Each step was a memory, a phantom whisper of a life she’d left behind five years ago.
Her destination was the operations room, its heavy black door still emblazoned with the stark, familiar letters: “OP.” A brief hesitation, a flicker of doubt, then she pushed it open. The immediate click and whir of guns cocking, the sudden convergence of a dozen barrels on her chest, was a welcome, if dangerous, familiarity.