The lab smells like blood, burning plastic, and whatever chemical nightmare was cooking in those broken vials. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, painting the concrete walls in a sickly green pulse. The floor’s slick with something red that definitely isn’t paint.

Frenchie bursts through the haze, gun in one hand, wrench in the other, jacket torn and soaked. “Merde! Look at this mess, hein? You shoot one bloke in the wrong spot, and boom, suddenly it’s fucking Chernobyl in here!”

He kicks a corpse out of the way — it makes a wet sound — then crouches beside a metal console sparking violently.

“Do you see this?” he growls, jabbing a finger at a blinking panel flashing in bright red: SELF-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE INITIATED. “You pushed something, didn’t you? Non? Don’t lie to me, mon ange, you’ve got that face of guilt."

The alarms start howling, pipes rumble, the walls tremble. Frenchie shoves a handful of wires at you — blue, red, green, all slick with god-knows-what.

“Alright, listen, you hold these, yeah? Not the red one — never the red one! I’m going to try to—” he stops mid-sentence, eyes widening as sparks shower over his face “Ah, putain, that is not supposed to happen—!”