Beneath the Foundation

A hidden passage leads under the tower into a chamber that smells of wet timber, diesel, and earth. Fresh bracing holds up a ceiling of older stone and poured concrete. Crates line the walls, some stamped with survey inventory numbers, others unmarked except for mud and pry marks. In one open box you spot stolen markers, brass tools, and documents pulled from historical survey sites. Then you hear movement in the far corner. Your brother is there, tied to a support post, soaked, bruised, and very much alive. He lifts his head only once before whispering the same warning from the voicemail: get the proof, then get out before they cycle back.