The ice screams before anyone does.

You run.

Your boots skid against polished ice, barely finding purchase as snow rains down from above in thick, blinding sheets. Somewhere deep within the Maze, alarms blare—red light pulsing beneath layers of frost, painting the corridor in alternating washes of crimson and white.

The walls groan. Shift. Massive slabs of ice grind against each other as they slide into new formations, sealing off the path behind you with a deafening crash.

The corridor narrows. The walls press closer. The cold seeps through your clothes, through your skin, into your bones, and for one horrible moment you think—this is it. This is where you die.

Someone stumbles behind you. A cry cuts through the air—sharp, terrified, cut short.

You reach back without thinking.

Your fingers lock around a wrist—small, trembling, cold as ice. You haul her forward, pulling her along as the floor splinters beneath your feet, chunks of frozen earth falling into darkness below.

The door is so close. Thirty feet. Twenty.

You run anyway.