I searched every inch of that place, each corner more unsettling than the last. Something wasn't right. The products—canned goods, dried grains, bottled water—lined the shelves in pristine condition, their dates telling an unusual story. They weren't expired, but they weren't new either, like they'd been preserved in time. There was enough food and supplies for not just one or two people, but seven, maybe eight, to live comfortably for thirty years. Without work. Without ever stepping outside.
Driven by an eerie curiosity, I kept searching. That's when I noticed it—an odd-looking shelf tucked into the farthest corner of the room. It wasn't just furniture; its placement felt deliberate. I pressed on it, inspected the books stacked on it, and noticed a faint pattern. One by one, I lifted the books, replacing them in their exact order. As the final book slid into place, a faint click echoed in the quiet, and the entire cupboard trembled before sliding aside with a groaning rumble.
