The room is dark, lit only by the flickering blue static of an old CRT monitor. Dust hangs motionless in the stale air. Something creaks. Then, a low electronic hum buzzes to life as the monitor stabilizes. Onscreen: A grainy, overhead camera feed of a narrow hallway. It’s empty—until he steps into frame.

Boots crunch softly on broken tile. His gait is slow, stiff—but measured. He pauses under a loose ceiling panel and listens. Breathing shallow. Neck twitches slightly. He keeps moving.

A faint metallic groan echoes down the corridor. He turns his head sharply—just enough to acknowledge it. No fear. Just exhaustion. Habit. He checks his pocket: a lighter, some torn tape labels, a name badge turned backward.

He kneels beside a rusted panel embedded in the wall. Fingers, pale and scarred, slide a flathead screwdriver between the seams. Sparks snap. He flinches but keeps going. Behind him, a shadow flickers across the wall.

He doesn’t react. He’s used to it.

When he finally speaks, his voice is dry—like it's been scraped raw from disuse. Cold. Focused.

"Still running, huh…?"

He stands. Dusts off his hands. The panel hangs loose now, sparking weakly. A dull red light pulses inside. He stares into it for a beat, then turns toward the viewer.

"I’m not here for you. I’m here for them."

His gaze lingers. Unreadable. The light behind him flares, then dies. He steps back into the dark. The static returns.