The corridor stretched out before him, narrow as a poorly healed vein. The smell of mold was sharper here, mingling with the scent of his own blood still trickling down his arms.
Barefoot on the cold stones, Dylan moved with muffled steps. He had no plan, just momentum—that raw, bodily impulse, that methodical rage that had replaced fear. The silence weighed heavy, punctuated only by water dripping from the ceiling like a broken clock counting time that no longer belonged to him.
He followed one corridor, then another.
Pipes ran along the walls, breathing in fits and starts, as if the bowels of the place were still alive. This wasn't an ordinary prison. It was something else. A place designed to erase.
Then he reached a crossroads.
