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We rip through them one by one.

Door. Lock. Code. Empty.

Door. Lock. Code. Empty.

One room holds a crate of supplies, stacked neatly. Another: restraints hanging from hooks, spare equipment Morales keeps for sedation.

I grab a set of leather cuffs from the wall and hurl them across the room. They hit the far concrete with a slap.

“Where the fuck is she keeping her?” I snarl.

“She must be somewhere. Think, Brox. When we had these rooms made, how far did the corridors go?”

I tear through another storage closet, crashing the boxes to the floor. Bandages from inside the box scatter. Bottles roll. “I’ve no idea! It’s been years!”

Rio’s palm is flat against the walls. He taps with his knuckles.

“What are you looking for?”

“For anything.” His voice grates. “She’s a planner. She prepares contingencies in advance. She didn’t improvise a disappearance in one afternoon.”

The two of us carve through the basement. Morales’ section. The research rooms with stainless steel counters and glass-fronted fridges. The minor surgery bay with its steel table and bright overhead lights. Every storage closet, every record room, every secure cabinet.

We shove things aside. Pull at shelving. Kick through boxes. Doors shudder against frames.

I walk deeper into the corridor, past a row of storage rooms that look barely used. I’ve already searched every inch I could reach. I’m running out of options.

I keep going until the hallway narrows, almost intentionally. On the left side, cardboard boxes are stacked from floor to ceiling, taped, labeled with numbers. A couple of crates lean against them, as if someone dumped everything here.

I walk it end to end, palms brushing along the exposed wall on the right. No marks. No seams. It ends in what looks like a blank panel, cold and unremarkable.

I stand there, staring at it.

Still… something is wrong. The proportions don’t match the layout on the other side of the building. The corridor feels shorter than it should. Too abrupt. Like a piece is missing.

I step closer to the boxes and press my shoulder against them. They don’t budge. Whoever placed them here didn’t throw them in randomly–they’re wedged tight and reinforced by the crates.

I shove them again, harder. This time, a low scrape answers back. And I think I see what was missing. The last cell.

“Rio! Get over there!” I shout and drag the top crate out by the rim.

It shifts reluctantly, grinding against the concrete until I force it aside. The boxes wobble, then I grip one and pull it down, then another, clearing a vertical line. Behind the last layer, a metal door emerges.

“We found her!” Rio exclaims. “Lana! Are you there?” He helps me clear the last few boxes from the doorway.

With everything out of the way, we pull open the metal door and find Lana in the middle of the small room, lying on a metal bench bolted to the floor. Medical equipment arranged neatly on a tray.

She’s chained at her wrists and ankles. There are straps across her chest and thighs. Her skin shines with sweat, hair stuck to her forehead, cheeks blotched. She’s naked under the thin white sheet that covers her body.

Her eyes sit half-open, whites visible, pupils unfocused. Her lips move without forming actual words. A low, broken sound leaks out, more breath than voice.

For a second, my mind refuses to process the image. It lands slow, detail by detail.

There is a pattern of bruises dotting the inside of her arms, purple, each one marks where a needle went in. The way her chest rises and falls too shallow, too fast. The tremor in her fingers when her hand twitches against the strap.

Then something tears inside me.

I step fully into the room. The air smells of antiseptic and sweat and whatever they pumped into her.