Page 155 of Stay Scared

That makes me laugh harder. Ash looks genuinely offended now, which only makes it worse.

“Show me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on.”

“I have already answered the question.”

“I need verification.”

“You are enjoying this far too much.”

“You built an attraction around me. I think I’ve earned ten seconds of you humiliating yourself.”

“I disagree.”

I keep looking at him. Ash lasts longer than most people would. Then his jaw shifts. He exhales through pursed lips. Nothing resembling a whistle comes out. Just air. I cover my mouth. Ash immediately turns toward the plotting mechanism. I catch his sleeve.

“You are not escaping into machinery after that.”

“I have demonstrated the requested deficiency.”

“That was terrible.”

“I warned you.”

“You sounded like a punctured air mattress.”

His stare could peel paint. I am still laughing when his mouth betrays him. Just barely, one corner moves. Not the Voice enjoying my reaction. Not the director pleased because something followed his design. Ash, embarrassed, irritated, and fighting a smile because I caught him being ridiculous. I like him in that moment. The realization arrives quietly enough that I don’t have to defend myself. I know plenty about Ash Langston that might keep me safe around him. Now I know he likes standing in dark aquarium rooms and cannot whistle to save his life. Neither fact helps me survive Crimson Night. I think that is why I want to keep them. Ash reaches toward the founder mechanism.

I let him this time. Behind the rear curtain, a circular brass housing waits inside a recessed cabinet. Metal tracks surround a plotting drum. Small pins correspond to old theater barriers, counterweight releases, mechanical doors, and routes that disappeared from the digital maps years ago. Ash reaches toward the founder key. I catch his wrist. He looks down at my fingers.

“That is still mine.”

“The key?”

“Yes, the key.”

“Interesting choice of noun.”

His eyes narrow.

I take the steel from around my neck and insert it myself. “Tell me.”

Ash comes close enough that his shoulder nearly touches mine. “Counterclockwise. Keep pressure inward until you feel the spring catch.”

I turn. The mechanism resists. Ash’s hand comes up beside mine but stops before touching the key.

“Harder,” Ash says.

I push. A heavy click travels through the housing. Springs engage, and the plotting drum begins its slow rotation. Brass pins rise and disappear while thin mechanical arms mark their paths onto a paper strip wrapped around the drum. The receiver beside the opening still shows Mark upright. Evan’s beacon remains steady. For the first time tonight, waiting feels like part of the rescue, not abandoning somebody. A black object sits at the far end of the table. Ash’s mask. This version is older and matte black, with narrow channels around the eyes where the later design carried light. The mouth is sealed.

Ash sees me looking. “The first Voice mask.”

“You kept it.”

His gaze moves across the room. “I keep everything that still has a function.”