The room was a labyrinth of shelves groaning under the weight of charred boxes and wired mannequins, their lifeless eyes staring accusingly. You pulled out a folder labeled “Subversive Activities,” your hands shaking as you scribbled over incriminating entries with a pilfered pen. Every scratch of ink felt like defiance, but the distant thud of boots reminded you that time was a luxury you didn’t have. He was out there, prowling the halls. You’d evaded Coyle twice already, once by shorting a fuse box, another by slipping through a vent, but the hunt was wearing you down, your muscles aching from the constant flight.