The shutters groan under Jackson Temple’s grip. Inside, the console spits a weak green glow over burnt plastic and blood. The Bishop Masked Man lies half-curled at Dallas Fontaine’s feet, trying to breathe through shattered pride.

Dallas plants a boot near the man’s hand and jams him still. The override card flashes once in the dead light, a clean answer to a dirty room. The clerk at the door keeps staring into the hall like he expects the building to grow teeth.

Jackson hauls the shutters another inch open, enough to show the corridor beyond, then grits his teeth as the mechanism fights him. The Bishop Masked Man’s gloved fingers twitch toward the console, but Dallas has his wrist line pinned under a hard stare and harder steel.

The clerk whimpers at the doorway. Somewhere beyond the shutters, boots sound in the hall, distant but coming closer. The Bishop Masked Man looks past Dallas, suddenly aware the clock is running out on all of them.

Dallas tears the mask free. The Bishop Masked Man sucks in a sharp, broken breath as Dallas drives a finger into the fresh bullet wound. Blood jumps over Dallas’s knuckle, and the man’s composure snaps at last.

Jackson looks over, still straining the shutters open, while Clara flinches hard at the sound and presses back from the doorway. The Bishop Masked Man glares through the pain, trying to hold onto something that is already gone.

His head lolls back against the floor, breathing ragged but still going. Dallas keeps pressure on the wound, and the prisoner, pale and shaking, gives him one last look toward the corridor like a man warning him where the trap has already been laid.