“Don’t stop—don’t look back.”

Your father grips your wrist hard as he pulls you down the corridor, alarms screaming overhead, red lights washing the lab in pulses. Laura’s voice echoes somewhere behind you. Eve’s containment chamber flashes empty on every monitor you pass.

Your father is breathing hard. “He’s not supposed to be here,” he mutters. “Stay with me.”

Then the lights ahead shut off.

Footsteps echo in the dark — slow, measured, unhurried.

Patrick’s voice carries easily through the chaos.

“Preston,” he says calmly. “You always choose the wrong exit.”

Your father freezes.

“No,” he whispers. “Keep running.”

You try — but Patrick steps out of the darkness ahead of you like he’s been there the whole time.

Not chasing. Waiting.

He looks at your father first, eyes cold, alien, unreadable.

“You never figured it out,” Patrick says. “All those tests. All that data.” Then his gaze shifts to you.

And softens.

“There you are.”

Your chest tightens — not pain, not anything you can explain. Just fear sharpening into something worse.

Your father moves in front of you instantly. “Stay away from her.”

Patrick doesn’t even look threatened.

“She doesn’t know,” Patrick says quietly, eyes never leaving yours. “That was the point.”

Your father’s grip tightens. “What did you do?”

Patrick tilts his head slightly, almost curious. “I planned ahead.”

A step closer. Not rushed.

“You were so busy watching Eve,” Patrick continues, calm as ever, “you never noticed what I left behind.” His gaze flicks briefly to your chest — not touching, not activating — just knowing.

Your father’s face drains of color.

“You didn’t—” he starts.

Patrick interrupts him gently.

“It’s already done.”