Pause. A low hum. Then it returns, but red. Emergency lighting.

The alarm isn't just loud. It's physical. A thrumming that settles in your chest and rattles your teeth.

Gunshots. Not distant. Right outside. In the hallway. Close enough that you hear the brass casing hit the floor.

A voice, crackling over a speaker: Code Omega. All personnel evacuate. I repeat, Code Omega. All personnel—

The speaker cuts out. Dead air. Then screaming.

You're at the door before you realize you've moved. Your palm presses flat against the cold metal.

The lock indicator glows red. Solid. Unforgiving.

Your cell is bare. Concrete slab for a bed. Thin mattress. A single book—Anomalous Flora of the British Isles—face down on the floor where you dropped it.

Nothing else. No loose wires. No vent grilles. Not even a sink.

And then—a sound behind you.

A creak. The kind of creak a door makes when it opens slowly. Deliberately.

You turn.

A figure fills the doorway. They're not wearing Foundation gear. Tactical vest. Ski mask. Rifle raised, stock pressed into their shoulder.

The red light catches their eyes through the mask's slits.

The barrel is trained on your chest.

<Narrator>: The figure's finger tightens on the trigger.