The response was faster than they expected. Within ten minutes, the quiet suburban street was flooded with the rhythmic strobe of blue and red lights. These weren’t standard police cruisers. Men in heavy, charcoal-colored suits emerged from unmarked vans, carrying Geiger counters that began to chatter hysterically the moment they stepped onto the porch. One of the technicians, his voice muffled behind a thick respirator, ushered Mark and Sarah toward the end of the driveway. “You were lucky the cat kept you away from that door,” he said, his eyes wide behind his visor.
The descent into the cellar looked like a scene from a science fiction film. The specialized team moved with a slow, calculated precision, their heavy boots thudding rhythmically against the wooden stairs that had once seemed so ordinary. Even from the driveway, Sarah and Mark could hear muffled, metallic clinking. The team treated every inch of the basement as a potential minefield, checking the structural integrity of the ceiling and monitoring for oxygen. It was a sobering sight that made the couple realize their new home had been a ticking time bomb, and the precision of the experts was the only thing standing between their neighborhood and a silent, invisible disaster.