The Smoldering Case

Skree. Metal teeth grinding against cold concrete—a sound that razors through the silence of the basement. Jason’s eyes snapped open. The chill in the administrative cellar bit through his damp school shirt, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second, dead layer of flesh. «Where… where am I?» His head spun. The memory of sprinting through the downpour collided with a sudden, jagged blackness. *Thrummm.* The emergency light flickered overhead, a pale yellow pulse like a dying heart. Shadows danced across stacks of yellowing archives, stretching and contracting with every faltering heartbeat of the bulb. Directly at his feet sat three black leather briefcases. Identical. Silent. Menacing. *Tick. Tick. Tick.* The digital wall clock hung at a crooked angle, its red numbers bleeding into the dark: 02:14 AM. Time was slipping through his fingers like dry sand. «Why am I here? And why these three cases?» Jason’s hand trembled as he reached for the middle handle. His fingers hovered, inches away. A strange heat radiated from the grip. A gust of hot air licked his cold skin. *Hiss.* A thin ribbon of grey smoke snaked out from between the zippers, twisting upward like a m…