Dallas feeds the code into the reinforced door. The lock takes it, then hesitates. Somewhere beyond the steel, heavy boots slow to a stop. The amber console light holds steady, like it is listening.

The door cracks open a hand’s width. Cold air spills out, carrying the smell of oil and damp concrete. A strip of corridor appears, and with it, a glimpse of a figure in Harbor Unit colors dragging something pale toward the inner chamber.

Jackson steps into the gap with his weapon up, forcing the door wider. The corridor beyond answers with a sharp metallic clatter, and a second set of boots breaks into a run deeper ahead.

Dallas has the route, the mole is exposed, and Dayton is only one door away. If he pushes through now, he reaches the captive professor before the reinforcements can lock the spine down.

Dallas slams the door wider and drives into the corridor, boots striking wet concrete as the amber glow spills behind him.

Ahead, the runner cuts hard around a bend, pale bundle still in hand, while fresh bootsteps hammer from deeper in the spine.

The service passage narrows around rusted pipes and old cable trays, the air cold and oily. Dallas closes the gap fast.

The runner glances back once, sees Dallas, and stumbles as the pale shape in their grip drops against the floor with a dull thud.

Dallas reaches the bend as a side hatch ahead starts to swing inward, opening onto the inner chamber where the corridor leads next.