Riley came to like a switch flipping on.

Blurred vision. High-pitched ringing in her ears. Her tongue tasted like chemicals.

She blinked hard. The room came into focus.

Fluorescents overhead. Cold, sterile. White.

She was strapped to a gurney. Cable ties cut into her wrists, looped tight to the side rails. Plastic bit her skin. Her hands were numb.

Her last memory hit her like a punch—The lead land-train cabin. Leaving Colt and Victor behind. Questions. Rough hands. Someone found her ID card. Her face on the laminate. Then the auto-nav kicked in and they dragged her down into a rover.

She'd fought. Kicked. Bit. Screamed.

They used a syringe pen. Press-click. Into her neck. After that—nothing.

Now she felt sick. And starving. Her guts hollowed out.

She looked around. At first, she thought she was dreaming. The layout was... familiar.

Then it clicked.

Her old classroom.

The walls had been painted over. No more kids' drawings. No multiplication tables. No rainbow posters about kindness. Just bare metal. Wires. A medical monitor humming beside her. Tubing ran from her arm to a pump. Boxes of pharmaceuticals stacked high on shelves.

Storage room. Makeshift prison.

She looked down.

A cold shiver ran through her.

Her stomach was bare. A grid of blue surgical pen marks crisscrossed her skin.

Organs. Target zones. Like a butcher's diagram.

"What the fuck?" she whispered.

She wasn't a doctor, but she knew this much:

You didn't lose this many organs and walk away.

A lock clicked at the door.

She went still. Eyes on the ceiling. Breathing shallow.

The door opened. Two people. One in scrubs, clearly a doctor. The other—a man—nurse, maybe. Bigger. Both masked.

The doctor stepped in first. Checked her pupils with a light.

"You're awake. Good," he said.

"Water," she croaked.

The man shrugged. "No can do. Surgery's coming up. Don't want you puking on the table."

The nurse was already prepping syringes. Fluid drawn into fat barrels.

"Let's get you prepped," he said.

"Please," Riley said, weakly. "I haven't done anything—"

The needle punched in. Cold fire under her skin.

"I don't feel so good," she whispered. "I'm dizzy. I need to get off the carousel..."

The nurse looked down, puzzled. Maybe thinking she was reacting too fast.

Then it hit.

She convulsed.

Full-body. Violent. Uncontrolled.

Her legs flailed. Her back arched. The vitals monitor lit up like a slot machine. Beeping frantically.

She screamed.

"Shit! Get Elsharif!" the doctor barked.

The nurse ran.

The doctor turned, digging through shelves. Looking for a sedative.

Then Riley struck.

Her heel smashed his face into the wall. The man crumpled, dazed but not out.

She kicked again. Harder. Twice. Then heaved with all her weight—flipped the gurney.

It toppled sideways. Crashed down on the doctor.

Heavy. Self-driving. Packed with motors and batteries. Dead weight. It pinned him.

She saw shelves tumble. Bottles scattered. Ampoules clinked and rolled.

The doctor was still moving. One hand reaching—

His fingers brushed a box marked Ethradyne. Strong sedative. Beside it—an accelerant. Highly flammable.

Bad mix.

She saw what he saw. Reached out with her legs. Locked them around his neck. Squeezed.

He choked. Clawed at her calves.

"Fucker," Riley hissed. She twisted her hips, putting every ounce of leverage into it. Her thighs crushed against his carotids.

He gurgled. Arms flailing.

His hand stretched. Found the box. Tore at it.

Riley bit at the cable tie on her wrist. Her jaw locked. She bit so hard she tasted blood. Her skin tore. She didn't stop.

The plastic started to give.

Below, the man flipped the lid off the box. A syringe rolled out. His fingers fumbled. Opened the casing. Exposed the needle.

He aimed it for her leg.

She saw it coming.

One final twist—

Her thighs clamped down. His windpipe caved.

He went limp.

She wrenched her hand free.

Snatched the syringe. Jabbed it into his arm. Emptied it. Maybe an overdose. She didn't care.

Now her breathing was shallow. One wrist free. One still tied. She scrambled for scissors. Found them. Cut herself loose.

Footsteps echoed outside.

The nurse. Returning.

She kicked a shelf. The whole thing toppled forward. Slammed into the door. Jammed it shut like a battering ram.

Thump. Thump.

"You can't get out, missy," came a voice. South African accent. Cold. Cocky.

She didn't answer.

She scanned the room. Drugs, canisters, tanks. Labels.

CO₂. Nitrous. Sevoflurane. Oxygen.

She had an idea.

When she was young, her mother used to take her along on repair jobs—air supply vents, colony ducts. Riley knew the shafts. Knew where they led.

She yanked an O₂ mask off a tank. Put it over her face. Twisted the valve.

Pure air.

Then she opened the other tanks. Rolled them toward the door. Gassed the corridor.

CO₂ would trigger atmosphere alerts. Security protocols. Everyone would come running.

Perfect.

The people outside started to ram the door. The fallen shelves held. 

She looked up. Found the vent.

She shoved the oxygen bottle through first. Then climbed. Hands bloody. Arms burning. She twisted. Wedged her foot into a groove. Pulled.

In.

Behind her, the shelf slid back into place. The nurse banged on the door. Cursing. Muffled now.

She lay on her stomach in the duct. Hot metal. No room to turn. Air tasted like grease and oil.

She grinned in the dark.

"Wonderful," she muttered. "Now all I have to do is Die Hard with breasts."

And she crawled.

No map. No light. Just memory.

The ducts narrowed, then opened again. Occasional glow from vents. She turned left. Then right. Lost count. She needed to move. Fast.

Suddenly there was an ear splitting blast. Someone had caused a spark in the old school. The oxygen and the Sevoflurane had done the rest. 

Alarms when off. Riley put the oxygen mask on through the smoke. She watch the air. 

The airflow told her where she was headed.

Greenhouses. Oxygenator plant.

Too obvious. They'd expect that.

She turned away. Took a smaller shaft. Crawled deeper. Slower. Silent.

They'd be searching soon.

But she was already gone.