They’re trying to funnel us.
That’s fine.
I’ve lived inside funnels and worse on some of our Black Ops. I’ve been in concrete and steel for I don’t know how long.
A maintenance ladder appears ahead, bolted into the wall, disappearing upward into a vertical shaft.
I stop.
She looks at it, then at me. “Up?”
“Yes.”
“Do we—”
“No time.”
I grab the ladder and climb, muscles aching from where their boots hit my ribs as I push myself up faster than my body wants to go. She follows immediately, no hesitation, her hands trembling but determined.
The ladder ends abruptly at a hatch.
Locked.
Of course it is.
I brace my shoulder, wedge the utility knife into the seam, andpush.
Pain explodes through my arm—but the hatch gives with a screech of tearing metal.
I shove it open and roll through, dragging her after me.
We slam it shut just as voices echo below.
The space we land in is smaller, warmer—maintenance crawlspace lined with bundled cables humming with live power.
I pull her close, press a finger to my lips.
We wait.
Boots reach the ladder. Someone climbs. A flashlight beam slices through the open hatch below.
“Clear!” a voice shouts.
They don’t climb all the way.
They don’t look up.
The hatch below seals again.
I sag back against the wall, chest heaving.
We’re not out.
But we’reahead.
She exhales shakily, then lets out a breathless laugh. “You really weren’t broken.”
I meet her gaze, something fierce and steady anchoring me.
