Perfect.
The guard’s struggles weaken.
I ease pressure just enough to let him breathe—but not enough to recover.
“Keys,” I murmur.
He shakes his head frantically.
I tighten my grip again.
Once.
Twice.
He nods.
I release one hand and strip the keycard from his belt, then the utility knife. I slide the blade between my cuff and wrist, wedging it—not cutting skin, just adding leverage.
I twist.
The cuff pops open with a soft metallic click.
Freedom burns.
I rise slowly, keeping one foot pressed against the guard’s chest.
“Stay,” I tell him quietly. “If you move, I’ll break your throat before you can scream.”
He freezes.
I turn to the woman.
Her eyes are wide—but focused.
Not panicked.
“You’re coming with me,” I say. “Now.”
She stands immediately.
I cut her cuffs in one clean motion.
The lights flicker violently overhead.
Too violent.
This time, it’s not an inquiry.
It’s alert.
Somewhere deeper in the facility, Malenkov’s system just realized something went wrong.
I grab the guard’s radio, flick it off, and toss it into the corner.
Then I take a breath.
Because the controlled failure just became an active breach.
