The narrow service alleyway was deathly quiet, save for the low, distant rumble of harbour traffic and the intermittent hum of massive commercial cooling units mounted high on the brick facade. Ryan stood near a stack of industrial pallets, his hand resting instinctively against the heavy strap of his canvas messenger bag where the illicit ledger and the cold brass key pressed firmly against his ribs. Just as he began to wonder if the text message had been another cruel ghost-hunt, a dry, muffled cough echoed sharply from behind a towering row of green recycling bins near the loading bay doors.
Stepping cautiously across the damp, oil-stained asphalt, Ryan adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and rounded the corner of the oversized bins. The space between the loading dock and the corrugated steel wall formed a dark, recessed alcove shielded from the grey afternoon light. There was no one standing there, but resting on top of a discarded cardboard box was a familiar square of neon-yellow stationery, fluttering slightly in the drafty corridor. It bore a single line of hurried block-lettering written in a meticulous imitation of his own handwriting: You are looking for a door that was sealed three years ago.
Before Ryan could reach out to pick up the note, a heavy metal fire door at the far end of the service corridor clicked shut with a definitive, metallic resonance. He froze, his heart executing a sharp, nervous double-beat against his ribs, before he forced himself to breathe evenly, tuck his hands into his pockets like any ordinary office worker taking a breath of fresh air, and step back out into the open alley.