Sirens wailed somewhere distant, swallowed by concrete and steel. The fluorescent lights above flickered—buzz, buzz, buzz—casting long shadows that jumped and twisted with every stutter. The air was cold, metallic, laced with the sharp tang of blood and something chemical underneath.

The Reagents had been running. They stopped now.

Three of them. Huddled together near end of the corridor, halfway between the elevator and a dead-end maintenance door. One held a rusted pipe. Another clutched a half-shattered bottle. The third just stared, mouth open, breathing too fast.

They had been looking for a way out. They had found an elevator instead.

And now the elevator had opened.

And standing in the light—

A child.

Small. Thin. Swallowed by fabric. A dark-and-white jumpsuit, ruffled collar askew, gloved hands pressed tight against her sides. She blinked, once, as if the fluorescent light hurt her eyes. Her gaze swept the corridor—the bloodstains, the scattered debris, the three adults frozen in fear—and her small face crumpled with confusion.

She looked at them like she wanted them to tell her where she was.

The bottle hit her first.