He raised a black submachine gun.

Rowan threw himself sideways, pulling me down with him.

A burst of gunfire shattered the silence of the stairwell.

Bullets chipped the concrete wall behind us, showering us with grey dust and plaster.

Rowan kicked out, catching the guard in the chest.

The man tumbled backward, crashing into the guard behind him.

Rowan stood up instantly and threw his weight against the cracked glass panel.

The wire mesh gave way.

He reached through the broken glass, his forearm scraping against the jagged edges.

Blood smeared the white frame as he searched for the emergency release lever on the inside.

There was a metallic click.

The door swung open.

He pulled his arm back, his sleeve torn and red.

“Go,” he muttered, pushing me through the opening.

We scrambled into the sterile hallway of the medical wing.

The doors behind us began to hiss, their automated magnetic locks trying to re-engage.

But the frame was damaged.

We sprinted down the hall, past closed doors with glass observation windows.

Inside, I saw empty examination tables, gleaming metal carts, and silent monitors.