I waited until the second gas hissed through the vents.
It was the weaker one — the sleep chemical, not the waking one. Most people learned to pass out after it. But if you pinched the artery in your neck the right way, you'd stay half-awake. Dazed, but moving.
And I needed to move.
I pulled the cloth note from under the drain again.
"You're not part of The usual Lot . They'll come for you faster.
Watch Ward D. Tonight."
There were no instructions. No names. Just that warning. That taunt.
It had to be a trap.
But if it was a trap, then someone still knew I didn't belong here. And I couldn't ignore that.
The hallway outside was dead quiet.
The kind of quiet that made your own breath sound criminal.
I stayed low, pressed against the wall. The corridor lights blinked between dim orange and static white. Prosola didn't care about maintenance. Only containment.
Ward D wasn't far.
But every ten feet, I had to duck into corners, shadowed alcoves, half-open supply doors. At one point I froze behind a cart of what looked like blood bags. Still warm.
Twice, I thought I saw movement. A figure at the end of the hall. But no alarm.
Not yet.
I reached the far end — a thick, rust-coated door with a label burned into a metal plate:
WARD D – LEVEL 2: INTERNAL DISSECTION
It wasn't locked.
Which was somehow worse.
I pushed it open just a crack.
And saw—nothing.
Just rows of metal tables and stacks of crates. It smelled like antiseptic and cooked meat. A horrible mix. Something moved beyond the far curtain — a shadow.
And then—
"Don't move."
A voice behind me. Sharp. Young. Male.
Cold metal pressed against the side of my neck.
I froze.
"I knew someone would follow that note. I was watching from the vent."
The pressure lessened, just slightly.
"Turn around. Slowly."
I turned.
He wasn't in uniform — not fully — but I recognized the crest on his jacket: a junior enforcer. Probably no older than me. Maybe a little older. But his eyes were older. Like he'd seen every kind of wrong.
"You're 06/50," he said flatly , checking under my shirt to look at my back. "Paper says 60. That's a lie."
I didn't answer.
He stepped back and folded the knife. Tucked it into his sleeve.
> "Didn't expect you to follow it this fast. But that's good."
> "Why are you helping me?" I asked.
"You spoke. You stood up. That's rare in here. People like you… they're worth the risk."
I stared at him.
"So what do I have to do?"
He looked toward the door.
"Nothing. Not yet. Just survive. Three more days."
"And then?"
"Shift rotation. I'll be assigned to Discharge Prep. That's when bodies get mislabeled. Lost. Disposed."
"You'll fake mine?"
He didn't answer.
But he didn't say no.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Fast. Too close.
He shoved me into a bin and slammed the lid — not locked, just heavy.
I held my breath as two older enforcers walked by.
"Still can't believe Dren got branded. All that for one rat's tears."
"Yeah, well. That's what happens when you beat a Tainted too loud in public."
They laughed.
I stayed buried beneath what smelled like dirty linens and antiseptic.
When it was clear again, the enforcer opened the bin.
"Stay quiet for the next few days," he said.
"Don't stand out. Don't make friends. Don't get marked for intake."
"What's your name?" I asked.
He paused.
"You'll know it when it matters."
Then he was gone.
I made it back to my cell without anyone noticing.
I think.
But the whole time, my heart pounded like it wanted to shatter my ribs.
Three days.
If I survive three days, I might get out of this place.