The corridor ahead was wide and painted a sterile, glossy white.

Bright fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long, erratic shadows on the linoleum.

Our footsteps echoed, sharp and frantic.

Behind us, the heavy metal doors of the generator room banged open.

“They are heading to the west wing!” a guard shouted.

We rounded a sharp corner, almost losing our footing on the slick floor.

The air here was different.

It was cold and smelled of isopropyl alcohol and bleach.

We were entering the medical compound.

Rowan kept his grip tight on my hand, pulling me forward.

“Which way?” I gasped, my lungs burning.

“Third floor,” Rowan said. “The private ward.”

We reached a set of stainless steel elevator doors.

Rowan bypassed them immediately, heading for the heavy door marked with the stairwell sign.

He shoved it open.

The stairwell was concrete and cold.

We scrambled up the steps, our breaths coming in ragged, synchronized gasps.

Below us, the sound of heavy boots entered the stairwell.

“They are in the stairs!” a voice bellowed from the bottom level.

“Seal the fire doors!” another voice ordered.