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... he smell of mold was sharper here, mingling with the scent of his own blood still trickling down his arms.

Barefoot on the cold stones, Dylan moved with muffled steps. He had no plan, just momentum—that raw, bodily impulse, that methodical rage that had replaced fear. The silence weighed heavy, punctuated only by water dripping from the ceiling like a broken clock counting time that no longer belonged to him.

He followed one corridor, then another. 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖 ...

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