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A narrow metal walkway ran through the middle of it, barely wide enough for one man in places, with a huge rusting ventilation duct taking up most of the space beside him. Somewhere above was the plant room Roman had shoved him out of, the access hatch now sealed firmly over his head.

So, yeah. A fucking ceiling. Trapped in it.

Beneath a roof that Jake knew was fucked.

He shifted against the duct and immediately regretted it. His back hurt, his ribs hurt and his ankle was fucked. His shoulder was worse, and every breath seemed to find some new bit of him to complain about.

Mostly that he was here.

He tipped his head back, staring into the darkness above. Somewhere beyond all that metal and timber sat several tonnes of roof no one trusted enough to leave standing beyond tomorrow. And for the first time since Roman had slammed the hatch shut, Jake wondered whether getting out before morning was actually going to be good enough.

But what was he supposed to do? Lie here and wait for Roman fucking Levenson to be right? That no one would find him? That he’d die here?

Fuck that.

He dragged himself upright beneath the hatch and slammed both palms against the metal. Pain shot through his shoulder, but he hit it again, hard enough to send the clang ringing through the cramped space.

Nothing.

So Jake grabbed the edge of the walkway, planted his weight on his injured ankle as carefully as he could and drove his other heel upwards.

“Fuck!”

The impact jarred all the way through him. He kicked again. Then again, putting everything he had behind it until his hip burned and his shoulder throbbed from holding himself steady. His bad ankle started to buckle beneath him, but still he kept going, each kick sending another metallic boom through the void.

Nothing fucking moved.

Eventually his ankle gave and he dropped heavily back onto the walkway. Dust and insulation fibres drifted down around him, catching in his hair and throat until he doubled over coughing, one arm clamped across his ribs.

The air hadn’t run out exactly, but it had gone bad. Every breath tasted of rust and dust, and heat sat trapped beneath the roof, stale and unmoving. His hands were a mess too, the skin across his knuckles split and bleeding again, yet the hatch remained stubbornly where it was.

There had to be another way out.

Buildings had access points. Maintenance routes. Someone had needed to get in and out of this place when it was still in use, which meant there had to be something.

So he glanced along the walkway disappearing into the darkness and hauled himself upright, grabbing the ventilation duct when his injured ankle protested beneath his weight. His phone had died hours ago, leaving him with no torch and no way of seeing what waited ahead.

Keeping one hand against the duct, he reached out with the other and started forward. His fingers found pipes, cables and cold metal while his boots tested the grating before he trusted his weight to it. When the edge of his boot suddenly found nothing, he stopped and crouched, reaching carefully beneath the walkway until his ribs protested.

He met nothing but empty space.

He stretched farther and still found no floor, no surface, nothing to tell him whether the drop beneath him was six feet or twenty. For all he knew, there was concrete at the bottom. Or machinery. Or enough old pipework to split him open on the way down. He’d spent too many years working at height to throw himself blindly into a drop he couldn’t judge.

So down was out.

Jake straightened and followed the walkway instead. Pipes forced him to duck and sections of ductwork narrowed the route until he had to turn sideways to squeeze through. Eventually his fingers found something flat amongst all the curved metal. He stopped, feeling around the edges until he worked out it was an access panel. Hope kicked painfully hard. There was a handle. He pulled it, then yanked it harder when it refused to move, only to discover the bloody thing was bolted shut from the other side.

Hope quashed.

He was used to that.

He’d had thirteen fucking years of dealing with that.

Then his boot struck something solid. He crouched and felt ahead, hands travelling over a section of old ductwork that had collapsed across the walkway. It blocked the route almost completely. There was no room beneath it and no safe way over, leaving only a narrow gap between the fallen metal and the wall. So he felt along the opening and knew immediately he should turn around.

But turn around to what?

A sealed hatch and the hope that someone, eventually, might realise he was missing and somehow work out exactly where Roman had put him?