The cell door slammed shut behind Dan with a metallic clang. The place was cramped and smelled of sweat and mildew. Light seeped in through a small, barred window, cutting through the dimness. Dan stared at the wall, his fists clenched. Dr. Sanders had played his cards well. Accusing him of trying to kill Lauren was a stretch, but the Doctor had money, lawyers, and enough connections to make things stick. Dan had barely spoken to his court-appointed lawyer—an overworked man who seemed more interested in clearing his schedule than fighting for him. It was obvious doctor Sanders had it all wrapped up. He was done Dan tried not to believe it, but doubt gnawed at him. Lauren’s father had made it clear he didn’t want Dan around his daughter. But to go this far? It felt personal. Prison life was rough, and Dan did his best to avoid trouble. Most days, he kept his head down, only speaking when necessary. But staying out of sight didn’t stop the rumors or the knowing looks from the other

Dan’s body screamed in protest as he dragged himself through the shattered window. His palms sliced on jagged glass, knees scraping asphalt. Behind him, Felix groaned, wedged between the deflated airbag and the twisted steering column. "Felix!" Dan coughed, grabbing his friend by the collar and yanking. The smell of leaking fuel filled the air, sharp and dangerous. Riley crawled out of the backseat, clutching her ribs and wincing. Her laptop was smashed, wires and fragments trailing from her backpack. “I’m okay,” she rasped, eyes wide as she scanned the wreckage. “Dan, they’re coming.” He turned. The men moved with ruthless efficiency, dressed in tactical black, no insignias—just cold purpose. One held a compact rifle low, sweeping it across the wreck like he was clearing a room. Another moved toward Dan, his boots crunching glass underfoot. Dan barely got to his feet, shielding Felix. “We don’t have anything you want,” he shouted. “On the contrary,” the lead man replied, raising

The tunnels smelled of rust and damp concrete. Felix leaned heavily against Dan, his breath ragged from the gunshot wound in his side. Riley led the way, her flashlight cutting through the darkness as they navigated the labyrinth of forgotten maintenance shafts. "Almost there," she muttered, more to herself than to themThey reached a rusted grate tucked behind a collapsed service corridor. Riley knocked twice, paused, then knocked again—an old rhythm she had picked up from a dead forum thread months ago.There was silence.Dan adjusted his grip on Felix, whose face was pale with pain and said, “ he's not gonna shoot us on sight right? " It worked.The grate hissed open. A man in a patched jacket and rebreather mask gestured them inside. The room beyond was dimly lit, cluttered with soldered tech, cables, monitors blinking with scrambled static. One of the Collective’s hideouts.The man pulled off his mask—mid-fortie

The North End apartments were quiet in the late afternoon, the kind of place where people kept to themselves. Dan pulled his hood down as he approached Rico’s unit, the weight of the future pressing against his ribs. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the empty parking lot, the curtained windows of neighboring units. No black vans. No figures lurking in the shadows. Just the hum of a distant television and the occasional bark of a dog down the street. He knocked twice, firm but not urgent. Footsteps approached from inside—slow, cautious. The peephole darkened for a second before the door cracked open, held in place by a chain. A pair of sharp brown eyes studied him. "Yeah?" Dan kept his hands visible. "Rico Vega?" The door didn’t open wider. "Who’s asking?" "Dan Foster." He hesitated, then went with the simplest truth. "We were on the same train. The NovaTech one that crashed." There was a pau

The museum’s shadow stretched long across the empty street as Dan leaned against his motorcycle, the engine cold between his legs. He had been waiting for hours, his back pressed against the brick wall of a closed café, watching the entrance through the scope of a pair of stolen binoculars. The night air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked pavement and distant exhaust. He shouldn’t have been here. He should have been back at the hideout, helping Riley decrypt more files, or with Felix, tracking the other survivors. But something about Rico Vega had gnawed at him—the way the man had lied so smoothly, the way his fingers had twitched when Dan mentioned ‘things that don’t make sense’. So he followed him. Now, as the minutes turned into hours, doubt crept in. ‘What if I’m wrong?’ The thought was like a splinter under his skin. He exhaled, rubbing his hands together to ward off the chill. His gloves were fraying at the