The cell is small—eight feet by ten, maybe. A cot bolted to the wall. A drain in the center of the floor, stained rust-brown. The air tastes of metal and disinfectant, but beneath it, something else. Something organic. Spoiled.

You've counted the tiles on the ceiling a thousand times. Two hundred and forty-three. One has a crack that looks like a lightning bolt. You know every inch of this room. Every sound of the facility—the hum of the ventilation, the distant clang of doors, the occasional scream from a lab you've never seen.

But tonight, the sounds are different.

Alarms. Red lights strobing across the observation window. Shouts—human and not quite human. Gunfire, close enough to make the walls shake.

The lock on your door clicks.

The corridor beyond is chaos. Bodies on the floor—some in white lab coats, some in guard uniforms. A scientist crawls past, dragging a bloody leg, eyes wide. They don't even look at you.

Down the hall, a window shows the outside. Rain. Chain-link fence. Darkness.

On the ground beside the door, a dropped keycard. A guard's sidearm, still holstered. A trail of blood leading left, toward the exit sign.