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“No flanking. No cover. They’re not worried about being seen.”

Because they’re not supposed to hide. They’re supposed to be noticed.

I whisper into the bead, “Second position. Now.”

“Copy.”

The comm clicks again. Gone.

My gut twists. Not from fear. From recognition. This isn’t just a funnel—it’s a psych map. Vale’s trying to predict my responses. Herd me into a single inevitable choice. A dead end I won’t see until I’ve already bled into it.

I spot it two minutes later.

A north egress tunnel—metal-gated, camo-netted, staged like an easy out.

I don’t touch it. I just pivot slightly, enough to keep it in my periphery, and count to five.

The explosion detonates inside the tunnel itself, a directional blast from a vent hidden in the support frame. Not enough to bring the place down—just a staged collapse that kicks debris outward and shreds the illusion of escape.

A bluff dressed like sabotage.

“Nice try,” I mutter.

Dust curls down from the ceiling like breath from a dying thing.

Vale’s message is clear: every path I think I carve for myself, he already mapped the exit wounds.

Except he forgot one thing.

I don’t run forward blindly anymore. I map beneath the map.

I track left along the inner wall, fingers grazing the ridged steel, past the settling dust and into a gap—a hidden seam in thelayout, missed on first glance. A maintenance hatch disguised as overflow drainage. I drop into it fast.

The tunnel twists. Narrows. Then opens.

Not into another hall.

Into a room.

High ceiling. Arched. Reinforced beams sloped like a cathedral spine. The hum of an old generator behind a grated mesh wall. Light flickers. Faint. Artificial. Blue-tinged and ugly.

And there—waiting in the center—a single drone hovers. Watching.

I freeze.

A single shape waits ahead. Not hidden.

Drone.

Hovering ten feet off the floor. Silent. Black shell. Streamlined. New gen.

It doesn’t engage.

Just rotates once.

Watches.

A screen beside it pings alive. Static. Then an image.