Red light washes the corridor in pulses. The walls inch inward with a grinding shriek, and Dallas sees the far bulkhead is a trap, not a dead end. The figure there is boxed in, shadowed, still, and the broadcast room beyond them is the only way to stop Bishop's signal before the district locks down.

Dallas moves in low, weighing the manual override against the trapped stranger. The seal behind him hammers once, then settles into a heavy, final click. There is no retreat left now, only the room ahead and the voice that is already shaping the city’s fate.

The walls keep closing, shaving the corridor narrower. Dallas has one clean shot at the problem, force the override and buy time, or push through the figure and reach Bishop’s source before the whole district seals shut.

Dallas drives a shoulder into the figure and shoves them hard into the bulkhead. They stagger aside, and he slips past into the red wash, coat brushing the narrowing wall.

The force jars the control seam loose. A sharp metallic click snaps through the chamber, and Dallas feels the old corridor mechanism bite harder behind him.

Dallas reaches the broadcast door and plants a hand on the pristine release lever. His palm comes away with a smear of dust, and the metal gives under pressure.

The walls grind inward another inch, shaving plaster and grit into the air. Dallas now has the door, but the chamber is starting to pinch off his retreat.