A bright, golden light flared from a doorway I hadn’t seen in the darkness.

A tall figure stood silhouetted against the glare.

“Vincent!” a voice shouted from the doorway.

I shielded my eyes against the sudden brightness.

The shadow stepped forward, and the light caught the edge of a silver medical case.

It was Dr. Hale, but he wasn’t alone.

Behind him, the sound of heavy, rapid footsteps echoed from the wet concrete.

Two of Vincent’s men pushed past Dr. Hale, their rifles raised toward the ceiling hatch.

They fired in synchronized, deafening bursts that filled the tunnel with the smell of sulfur.

Vincent grabbed my upper arm, his grip tight and steady, and pulled me toward the open doorway.

“Move, Lena,” he muttered, his voice low against the noise.

I stumbled over the uneven concrete, my sneakers splashing in the shallow, filthy water.

Dr. Hale stepped back to let us pass, his face pale but entirely calm under the harsh light.

We hurried down a narrow concrete corridor that sloped upward, away from the sound of gunfire.