The corridor shudders under Level Three, amber light bleeding across peeling steel. Jackson braces the rear shutters with both hands while Murderbone snarls at the open service spine ahead. Clara backs away from the hatch, white-faced.

A boot scuffs on the stairs below. The Bishop Masked Man sags against the wall, his remote leash dead in Dallas’s hand, eyes wide with the first clean fear he has felt all night.

Murderbone launches toward the stairwell, claws striking metal, while Dallas stands at the threshold with the service spine yawning dark below. Behind him, the shutters groan. Ahead, the route to C-14 waits in the red glow.

Dallas breaks from the threshold and moves. The corridor blurs under his coat as he cuts past Clara, the dead remote still clenched in his hand.

He hits the stairwell fast, boots ringing on steel. Murderbone surges ahead of him, and the red spill below gives way to a tight service landing marked C-14.

The manual release lever sits beside the hatch, pristine against the grime. Dallas reaches it first and yanks, and the door gives with a clean mechanical clack.

Room C-14 opens on a raw maintenance chamber, lit by amber glow from a console. The handler stamp on a ledger sleeve lies on the floor beside a discarded Harbor Unit badge.

Behind him, the rear shutters buck and groan harder, but they hold. Clara stares after him, shaken silent, while Murderbone plants himself at the hatch and growls at the dark inside.

Dallas is in C-14 now, and the space answers with a waiting silence. The route is clear, the evidence is here, and whatever was hiding the mole has finally been put on the clock.

Dallas kneels by the ledger sleeve and pinches its seam open with two fingers. The paper gives up a folded strip and a carbon copy route slip, both stamped with a Harbor Unit oversight code.

He turns the sleeve over, and a second mark appears beneath the fold, a handler signature tied to Internal Oversight. The trace is clean, deliberate, and human.

Jackson leans into the hatch, catching the evidence in one glance while Murderbone keeps his body braced against the threshold. The amber console light holds steady over the open room.

Dallas folds the sleeve shut and lifts the stamped copy free. The mole is no longer a rumor in the chain, he is a name on paper.

Behind them, the shutters shudder but stay locked in place. Dallas has the proof in hand, and the open hatch below waits for the next move.

Dallas rises from the floor and turns the route slip outward, holding it where Jackson can read the Harbor Unit stamp without stepping into the room.

Jackson takes the paper only long enough to compare the handler signature, then flicks his eyes to the open hatch and the amber console glow beyond Dallas's shoulder.

Murderbone shifts from the threshold to Dallas's side, shoulder brushing his coat, still watching the corridor while the shutters rattle behind them.

Jackson hands the route slip back into Dallas's palm, already pivoting toward the hatch with the evidence fixed in his head.

Dallas moves first, slipping past the hatch lip and into Room C-14 as the corridor noise dulls behind him.

The amber console glow catches the discarded Harbor Unit badge on the floor, and the open ledger sleeve lies beside it like a shell emptied in a hurry.

Murderbone pads in tight at Dallas’s knee, then turns his head toward the hatch, listening for any shift in the shutters.

Dallas reaches the chamber threshold and the evidence is now inside the room with him, while Jackson braces at the opening and Clara stays frozen near the wall.

Dallas moves past the threshold and into the back of Room C-14, where the floor opens into a cramped maintenance nook. The amber console light throws hard edges across the walls, and the route slip stays pinched in his hand as he closes on the inner panel.

The discarded Harbor Unit badge lies near the open ledger sleeve, untouched. Dallas angles toward the far side of the chamber, and the hidden route stamp on the paper catches the glow as if it is pointing him onward.

Jackson holds the hatch line and does not come in. Murderbone shifts deeper inside with Dallas, shoulders tight, nose low to the concrete, while Clara stays frozen by the wall and watches the room like it might bite.

Dallas presses deeper still, and the loose seam beside the maintenance bulkhead gives under his touch. The fit is exact, the sort of hidden work meant to stay invisible until someone with the right evidence finds it.

Inside the recess, he finds the manual release lever, pristine and untouched, waiting beside the route slip’s matching stamp. The chamber answers with a faint mechanical click, and the way forward is his.

Dallas takes the lever in hand and pulls. The mechanism yields cleanly, with a dry metal shiver that runs through the bulkhead and into the floor.

The hidden panel gives way farther than expected, exposing a narrow service throat stamped with fresh maintenance marks and a route code that matches the ledger sleeve.

The amber console light flickers once, then steadies, as if the room is giving up its lie. Murderbone steps to Dallas's heel and stares into the new opening.

Inside the recess, Dallas spots a second slip jammed behind the release housing, a handler note with Bishop's access chain and a direct reference to Room C-14 below.

Jackson tightens at the hatch, ready to cover the descent while the newly opened passage waits for Dallas to commit.

Dallas ducks through the service throat, shoulders brushing stamped steel, and the hidden passage swallows him in a wash of warm dust and machine oil.

The route drops at once into a maintenance run below, and his boot catches a ridge of grit before he steadies himself on the wall.

Behind him, Jackson holds the opening while Murderbone presses to the threshold, but Dallas is already inside the spine.

Dallas catches the second slip with Bishop’s access chain tucked in the housing, and the paper tears at the corner as he frees it.

The console light above the bulkhead holds amber, but a faint click answers from deeper below, as if the building has heard him arrive.

Dallas commits to the throat and slips fully into the maintenance run, the torn slips tight in his hand as the passage swallows his shoulders.

His boot scrapes the lip on the way down, loud in the narrow steel, and a puff of dust shakes loose into the amber spill from above.

Behind him, the opening stays clear for a beat, with Jackson braced at the hatch and Murderbone crouched to spring if anything comes back up.

Dallas clears the threshold and lands inside the lower run. The second slip stays with him, the torn corner now folded against his palm, and the faint clicking below answers his arrival.

Above, the amber console light holds steady while the service throat behind him frames the room like a closing mouth.

Dallas drops into the maintenance run and keeps moving, shoulders tight as the steel throat narrows around him.

The torn ledger slip scrapes his knuckles, and the faint clicking below grows sharper with every careful step.

Behind him, the hatch stays open, but the light from Room C-14 thins against the bend as he presses farther in.

Dallas reaches the first bend and pauses long enough to catch the amber glow from a small service panel ahead.

His boot lands on a loose plate with a dry metallic tick, and the sound echoes straight down the run.

Dallas threads past the bent service panel, his shoulder brushing the steel wall as the run tightens around him.

The amber status light falls behind him, and the loose plate settles with a faint rattle under the fading pressure of his step.

He keeps the ledger slips low, eyes forward, and slips into the darker stretch beyond the bend.

Ahead, the passage opens just enough to show a sealed bulkhead with a pristine manual release lever, untouched and waiting.

Dallas reaches it, and the dark beyond the door answers with a single dry click.

Dallas slips past the bulkhead and commits to the deeper run, his boots finding the narrow center line before the walls can close the gap around him.

The corridor beyond opens into a short inspection spur, and the amber glow from behind falls away, leaving the service spine lit by a cleaner, colder strip of white.

His hand brushes a junction tag on the wall, and the stamped route on the ledger sleeve lines up with it exactly, confirming he is on the correct branch.

Murderbone presses in close at Dallas's knee, then stops hard at the next bend, ears locked forward, warning him that the path ahead is occupied.

Dallas reaches the next junction and finds a maintenance door already unlatched from the inside, its handle damp with fresh use.

Inside the opening, a Harbor Unit badge lies faceup under the light, and the handler stamp on the ledger sleeve matches the office code beside it.

Dallas takes the badge from the lit threshold and slips it into his coat. The handler stamp inside the sleeve matches the office code beside the door, and that match lands like a verdict.

He pushes the maintenance door wider and steps into the office node, with Murderbone moving in at his heel.

The room is cramped, cold, and tidy in the way of people hiding damage. A desk, a dead monitor, and a sealed file rack sit under the white strip light.

Dallas angles to the desk, badge in hand, and the office goes still around him, waiting for what the clerk left behind.

Dallas eases the sealed rack open and finds it packed with thin folders, route slips, and clipped transfer notes, all filed with obsessive care. One sleeve carries the same handler stamp he has been chasing, and another bears a clean route mark to Room C-14.

He pulls the marked bundle free. Inside is a transfer chain, a sign-out ledger, and a memo naming the clerk who moved the paperwork upward through Harbor Unit oversight.

Dallas thumbs through the last sheet and finds the mole's access signature beside the same stamp seen in the corridor. The paper trail stops pretending to be routine.

From the hallway, boots scrape closer, then slow at the open door. Jackson shifts hard at the bend, readying to cover the retreat if Dallas has what he needs.

The rack hangs open, evidence in hand, while the office waits for Dallas's next move.

Dallas slips the last page free and isolates the access signature, a clean trail of initials and route marks that matches the handler stamp. The paper crackles once in his grip.

He folds the signature into the evidence stack, but the edge nicks his thumb and beads blood on the memo. The office light catches the smear before he wipes it away.

Murderbone bristles at the doorway as the boots in the hall stop dead. One shadow shifts back, then another, as if the hallway has just heard enough to matter.

Jackson straightens at the bend, keeping the exit open with his body while Dallas keeps the marked page secured. The office feels suddenly smaller, the evidence suddenly heavier.

Dallas eases into the shadows by the office door, using the filing cabinet and the open angle of the threshold to break his outline. Murderbone slides in low beside him, silent and ready.

Jackson shifts at the bend, one hand raised for stillness, the other keeping the exit line clear. He catches Dallas's eye and gives a short nod, all business.

The office light washes over the evidence stack, the handler stamp, and the blood on the memo. Dallas's thumb leaves a dark mark on the folder edge as he settles his grip, and the tiny sting reminds him the cut is real.

Outside, the boots stop at the frame. A man in the hall leans forward just enough to peek in, then freezes when he sees the dark shape of Murderbone by the door.

The hallway figure takes one step into view, blind to Dallas's angle, and the room holds its breath around the open doorway.

Dallas fires once. The hallway figure jerks backward, the shot punching through his shoulder and spinning him into the wall beside the frame.

His dropped badge skitters across the floor, and the corridor beyond opens for a heartbeat, showing two more silhouettes already breaking away.

Murderbone surges to the threshold, blocking the wounded man from crawling back in, teeth bared at the hall.

Jackson snatches the evidence bundle from Dallas's side and slaps the handler stamp against the lit desk lamp, making the mark plain.

The wounded figure tries to speak, but only blood and a hoarse gasp come out. In the open folder, the same route code and stamped chain sit exposed for anyone in the room to see.

The last shutter groaned somewhere behind them, but the chamber held.

Dallas left with the proof in hand and the rescue secured. Behind him, the service spine kept shuddering, but the chapter had already closed on the people who mattered. The trap was exposed, the mole named, and the dark below had failed to swallow the truth.