“Emily,” he whispered, pointing toward the small ventilation grate near the floor. “You have to get out.”

The door to our room slowly began to swing open.

The door swung wide, the hinges groaning in the dark.

I braced myself, my heart hammering against my ribs.

But it was not Julian Bellamy who stepped through the threshold.

Instead, Charles Whitmore burst into the room, his coat flecked with melting snow.

Two men in dark tactical vests followed him, their flashlights cutting bright beams through the dimness.

“The elevators are locked down,” Charles said, his voice urgent but controlled.

“Bellamy’s men are coming up the stairs,” he added, gesturing for his guards to block the door.

One of the guards quickly pushed a heavy metal medicine cabinet across the doorway.

The screech of metal against the linoleum floor was deafening in the quiet ward.

My father reached out, his frail fingers trembling as they brushed against my sleeve.

“Emily,” he croaked, his voice cracking with dry, unused breath.

I turned back to him, the reality of his presence finally breaking through my panic.