Shaw has selected this place deliberately, and not just because it represents Aliyah's past. Every location in her mental chess game has been chosen for maximum emotional resonance, designed to strip away the protective armor I've built around my heart and leave me raw and vulnerable to whatever manipulation she has planned.
The building shows signs of recent activity that make my skin crawl with recognition. Fresh tire tracks in the gravel lot, disturbed vegetation near the service entrance, the kind of subtle preparation that reveals someone who understands how to weaponize nostalgia and turn sacred memories into instruments of torture.
I approach the main entrance with movements that feel disconnected from conscious thought, my body operating on instincts that Kent's letters taught me to trust. The loading dock doors are chained shut, but there's a pedestrian entrance that stands slightly ajar—Shaw's invitation, her way of guiding me deeper into whatever trap she's constructed in the space where Aliyah once created beauty from clay and hope.
The interior smells like dust and abandonment, years of neglect creating an atmosphere heavy with dreams deferredand potential unrealized. But underneath the decay, I detect something else—the faint scent of Shaw's expensive perfume mixing with something sharper, more chemical. Cleaning supplies, maybe, or something worse.
Emergency lighting flickers along the corridors, casting shadows that dance and shift with each step I take toward the freight elevator. The building directory still hangs beside the entrance, faded and water-stained but readable: "Third Floor - Artist Studios." The same floor where Aliyah spent three years before meeting Janine, creating pottery that captured light and shadow in glazes that seemed to glow from within.
Shaw has turned that sacred space into a hunting ground, and the violation runs deeper than simple kidnapping. She's desecrating the memory of who Aliyah was before love convinced her that domestic stability mattered more than artistic expression.
The elevator groans and shudders as it carries me upward, each floor marker lighting and dimming like a countdown to whatever psychological warfare Shaw has prepared. My phone shows no signal—not surprising in a building this old, but convenient for someone who wants to ensure their victims remain isolated and dependent on whatever communication methods the predator chooses to provide.
The third floor opens into a maze of converted studio spaces, most standing empty with their doors hanging open like dead mouths. But there's light spilling from the corner unit, warm and inviting in a way that makes every survival instinct I possess scream danger.
Aliyah's old studio. The space where she spent three years learning to shape clay into vessels that could hold hope and beauty and the kind of transcendent meaning that makes life worth living. Shaw has turned it into a stage for whatever finalact of psychological theater she's been orchestrating for nine years.
I move toward the light with the careful precision that Kent taught me through letters written in block script on cream-colored paper. Stay low, stay quiet, observe before acting, trust your instincts when rational thought fails. The skills of a predator, gifted to me by someone who understood that sometimes survival requires embracing darkness rather than fighting it.
Through the studio windows, I can see movement—a figure bound to a chair in the center of the space, surrounded by what looks like the shattered remains of pottery scattered in deliberate patterns across the floor. Performance art, staged with the kind of calculated cruelty that transforms genuine emotion into academic exercise.
Shaw has turned Aliyah's art into a weapon, and she's about to learn that some weapons cut both ways.
The studio door stands open like an invitation to hell, and I step across the threshold with my heart hammering against my ribs hard enough to leave bruises. What I see inside makes my vision blur red with rage that threatens to override every tactical consideration Kent ever taught me.
But something's wrong with this picture.
The space is empty except for the shattered pottery arranged in deliberate patterns across the floor. No chair, no bound figure, no Aliyah waiting to be rescued. Just the destroyed remnants of her artistic legacy scattered like accusations across the studio floor.
The centerpiece of this twisted gallery is a large serving bowl Aliyah made for Janine's birthday three years ago, now cracked into precise geometric fragments but held together bywhat looks like thin wire. The message is clear: Beautiful things can be broken while maintaining their shape, and love can be destroyed while preserving its appearance. Shaw has turned Aliyah's art into a meditation on the fragility of everything precious.
I recognize other pieces among the deliberate devastation—a vase with glazing that captured sunset colors, a set of mugs with handles shaped like embracing figures, plates with spiral patterns that seemed to move in candlelight. Each represents hours of work, months of creative vision, years of learning to transform clay into vessels that could hold hope and beauty and meaning.
Shaw has desecrated it all, turned a lifetime of artistic creation into props for her twisted research theater.
"The Death of Creation," I whisper, understanding Shaw's twisted symbolism immediately.
But where is Aliyah?
Shaw's voice fills the studio from speakers I can't locate, cultured and calm and carrying the kind of satisfaction that makes my skin crawl with visceral revulsion.
"Good evening, Delilah. I trust you're impressed by my installation work?"
I move toward the center of the space, but there are no traps here, no motion sensors or pressure plates. Just the deliberate psychological cruelty of destroying something beautiful to make a point.
"Ms. Morgan isn’t here," Shaw continues, and I can hear amusement in her voice that suggests she's watching my realization dawn through hidden cameras. "Neither are the explosive devices, the impossible timeline, or the choice you thought you were making. The warehouse served its purpose—a conditioning phase designed to help you understand exactly what's at stake."
My hands clench into fists as the full scope of Shaw's manipulation becomes clear. The warehouse was never about rescuing Aliyah. It was about forcing me to confront the destruction of beauty, the weaponization of love, the systematic dismantling of everything I hold sacred.
"You're probably wondering where she is," Shaw observes, her voice carrying the clinical detachment of someone discussing a mildly interesting research paper. "Ms. Morgan, like Ms. North—thanks to your paramour, are both quite safe, though their continued well-being depends on your willingness to participate in the final phase of our work together."
Static crackles through the intercom system, and then Shaw's voice returns with what sounds like barely contained excitement. "The rehabilitation center and the warehouse served their purpose—conditioning phases designed to separate you and Mr. Shepherd, to force you both to confront your authentic selves individually. But my real research question requires observing how you function as a team."
My phone buzzes suddenly with restored signal, three bars appearing where there had been none moments before. Shaw has been jamming communications, controlling information flow, ensuring that Kent and I remained isolated from each other during our separate discoveries.
But instead of a timer, a text message appears on my screen. The number is blocked, but the message is clear: "The real experiment begins at 1247 Oakmont Drive. You have 30 minutes. Don't keep us waiting."
The address makes my blood run cold with recognition.
