The firelight and gun smoke inside the archive room spun through the air like lunatics off their meds. The clanging of bullets smashing into metal cabinets was louder and cruder than any symphony could ever dream of.
Ethan lay flat on the ground, yet his brain wandered:
—If I die in the Bureau's office, my epitaph will probably read:"He was shredded into confetti by his own colleagues."
Gray Fox, however, looked like he was born for chaos. He rolled through the storm of bullets, dropping agents one by one with sharp, practiced shots, graceful as though auditioning for a stage play.
"Move!" Gray Fox roared, yanking Ethan's arm.
Ethan staggered to his feet, nearly tripping over a pile of shredded dossiers. Papers rained down in absurd beauty, like a wedding confetti shower—only the guests weren't relatives but fully armed killing machines.
Karin cursed under her breath, drawing her gun to cover them. Her expression said clearly: she'd rather break three thugs' noses in a bar fight than end up in some bureaucratic accident report.
The three of them burst from the archive, sprinting down the pitch-black corridor. Alarms still stuttered overhead, and the whole building shook beneath them like it had learned to keep rhythm.
The broadcast kept looping, mechanical and cold:"Gray Fox has breached Zone Three. All personnel switch to Level-Two interception. Repeat, Level-Two interception."
"What the hell is Level Two?" Ethan panted as he ran.
"Means they're allowed to use heavy firepower," Gray Fox shot back without turning. "No need to worry about renovation budgets."
Right on cue, panels slid open in the walls, revealing cold barrels of automated turrets. Their red sights glowed like freshly pulled shark teeth.
"Down!" Karin yelled.
The hallway exploded into a storm of bullets. Iron rain poured, tearing the ground into craters. Sparks sprayed everywhere. Ethan slammed himself flat, thinking absurdly: I'm like a mascot on some billboard—always stuck in the middle of an explosion no one cares about.
Gray Fox whipped out a compact charge and hurled it at the wall. A boom rattled the ceiling, dropping chunks of dust, shredding the turrets into flaming wreckage.
"Quickly—Death's already counting the seconds," he grinned, dragging them through the debris.
They stumbled into an emergency stairwell, clattering down the iron steps. Their footsteps echoed like a nightmare's drumbeat.
Ethan gasped, nearly out of breath. "Why do I feel like a runaway bride—with a groomsmen squad chasing me with machine guns?"
Karin sneered: "Don't worry. They'll make sure you get the wedding box—six feet under."
At the basement level, a squad of agents already waited, rifles raised. Time froze.
Gray Fox suddenly raised both hands, wearing a mocking smile. The agents hesitated for half a second—just long enough for him to tap a button on the wall.
The fire-suppression system whooshed to life. White foam spewed from the ceiling, drowning everyone in frothy absurdity. Gunfire cut off. The corridor instantly looked like the world's worst foam party.
"Brilliant," Ethan coughed as he scrambled forward. "The Bureau finally learned what 'entertainment to death' means."
They bolted into a maintenance tunnel where a rust-eaten electric cart waited. Gray Fox jumped behind the wheel, stomping the pedal. The cart shrieked forward, rattling like a dying toy.
Gunshots and angry shouts echoed behind them, muffled by the foam.
Ethan clutched the rail and yelled: "This junker is basically a coffin on wheels!"
Gray Fox barked a laugh: "Correction—at least it has wheels!"
The cart smashed through the final gate and burst into the night. Cold wind slapped their faces, carrying neon and the stench of chaos. Ethan laughed into the wind, the sound broken like a busted radio.