The file room door bangs wider, and Jackson Temple fills the frame in a disheveled Harbor Unit uniform, one hand hovering near his holster. His eyes skip past Mara Quill, Elena Vane, and the terrified runner, then lock on Dallas Fontaine.

The runner flinches hard enough to rattle the wall. Murderbone squares at the threshold, hackles up. Mara Quill snaps her head toward the corridor, already calculating exits.

A fresh bootstep sounds outside the half-latched door. The room tightens around it, every face turning toward the crack of light like it might bite.

Dallas is already moving when the first alarms start to rise outside. He crosses the dark file room in two quick strides, coat brushing the stacks.

He plants a hand on the vent grate, twists, and wrenches it free. Dust and old paper lint spill across his sleeve.

Dallas boosts himself up, catches the rim, and pulls with clean, practiced force. The shaft gives him just enough room to slide inside.

Above Dallas, the vents carry a thin draft and a new sound, boots pounding somewhere below the annex. From his perch he spots a service tag tucked behind the grille, stamped with the lower floor access route.

Murderbone noses in after him, and the grate hangs open behind them as the hallway light flickers out.

Dallas crawls on, one hand over the stamped route tag, the other steady on the metal ribs. The shaft narrows, then bends down through a service drop.

Below him, the annex hums with footsteps and clipped voices. The route tag points him past the main stairwell and toward a lower utility level.

Murderbone pads after him, claws muffled against the duct floor, close enough to brush Dallas’s boot.

Dallas slides around the bend and catches a slit of light through a side seam, enough to see a concrete corridor below and a loading door marked in faded stencil.

A fresh burst of radio chatter rises from somewhere deeper in the building, then cuts off.

At the next grate, Dallas reaches out and tests it. The panel gives on the first touch, already loose from the inside.

Dallas eases the loose grate free and lets it swing inward without a scrape. The opening below breathes cold air up into the shaft.

He drops through first, catching the lip with one hand, then lowers himself into the lit corridor. His boots land soft on concrete.

Murderbone follows in a quick, silent slide, landing close and turning his head toward the hallway before the echo can travel.

Ahead, the corridor runs past a faded loading door and a line of conduit pipes. A fresh set of muddy tracks cuts across the dust near the wall.

From somewhere above, the footsteps and radios shift again, tighter now, as if the sweep is spreading out.

At the far end of the hall, a man in an annex maintenance coat rounds the corner with a clipboard, then stops cold when he spots Dallas and the dog.

Dallas straightens just enough to own the corridor, revolver low, voice flat. The man in the coat stops trying to look casual.

Dallas steps closer, his eyes dropping to the clipboard. The top sheet is blank, but the mud on the man’s cuffs matches the tracks by the wall.

Murderbone shifts between Dallas and the hall, growling once. The maintenance man’s grip tightens on the clipboard, then loosens as he spots Dallas’s badge pocket and decides against running.

Dallas takes the name and the route without raising his voice. The man backs a half step toward the corner, eyes flicking to the open grate above as footsteps murmur somewhere farther off.

Dallas glides past the maintenance man without breaking stride. Murderbone stays half a step behind, eyes on the corridor while the footsteps above keep muttering through the concrete.

He reaches the relay office door, reads the cheap brass plaque, then eases it open just enough to slip inside.

The room is cramped and hot, packed with humming radios, a wall of fuse boxes, and a desk littered with call slips. A narrow window shows the service hall in slices.

Dallas spots a fresh coffee ring beside a routed map and a dangling phone cord. Someone left in a hurry, but not empty-handed.

Murderbone noses toward the far wall and stops at a locked cabinet. Something inside gives a faint metallic tick.

From the corridor, the maintenance man calls after him in a tight voice, 'I told you where Bell went. Do I still get to walk out of this?'

Dallas crouches at the cabinet and studies the lock, the frame, and the dust around the seam. The metal is newer than the paint on the wall.

He works the latch with careful pressure. The lock gives, and the door swings open on a dry hinge.

Inside sits a narrow case, two paper envelopes, and a cheap plastic key tag stamped with Bell's initials.

Dallas lifts the top envelope. A route sketch, a relay schedule, and a handwritten note name the basement sweep and the office pickup.

Murderbone growls low, not at the cabinet now, but at the corridor outside as the footsteps stop short of the door.

Dallas sets the envelope aside and unlatches the narrow case. Inside, a series of high-resolution photographs document the illegal harbor transfers, each one clearly showing Jonas Bell signing off on the manifests.

Dallas folds the photographs from the case into his coat with practiced speed. The relay office feels smaller as the flicker catches on Bell’s key tag, then dies again.

Murderbone shifts to the doorway, teeth bared at the corridor. The maintenance man flinches back, eyes darting between the dog and the hall.

The man slips away on soft shoes, vanishing into the shadows beyond the office. Dallas’s hand catches on a clipped copy of the cabinet inventory as he turns.

A fresh rush of boots thuds somewhere below, then stops. Murderbone growls once, low and hard, at the corridor mouth.