The Silver Minute: Part 4

Thorne didn't waste the final, precious gasping breath. The low, grinding screeech of the three-foot-thick vault door ratcheting closed was the only cue he needed. The acid had bought him an exit, and he took it.

He plunged backward through the jagged, smoking hole in the floor. The hole was tight, the melting edges catching the resilient polymer of his tactical gear. He dropped roughly fifteen feet, his fall cushioned slightly by dense bundles of fiber optic cable, before hitting a slick, narrow steel grating with a bone-jarring impact.

The air here was a gift—stale, thick with the smell of ozone, hydraulic fluid, and dust—but it was rich with the oxygen he desperately needed. He lay prone for a moment, sucking in ragged breaths, the world snapping back into sharp focus.

He was in the main utility nexus, a cramped, subterranean labyrinth of pipes, conduits, and ventilation ducts. Above him, the acid continued its caustic drip, creating miniature geysers of smoke as it met the galvanized steel below. The aperture leading back up to the vault chamber was already starting to shrink as the intense compound ate away the final support structures of the floor.

He checked his suit. A faint sizzle and scorch mark on his left boot. Close. Too close.

His tactical light swept the chaotic space. He needed an exit, and fast. The antagonist knew he was down here and likely had secondary measures prepared.

“Well done, Mr. Thorne,” the familiar voice crackled, this time not from a speaker but through a small, exposed comms wire dangling directly above him. The quality was tinny, close. “You chose the logical path. But as you’ve already figured out, the logic of this trap is recursive.”

Thorne scrambled to his feet, ignoring the searing pain in his knee. The key, still warm from the massive electrical surge, was clutched in his hand. A private collection, far from here.

Suddenly, his light caught a shape. It wasn't a pipe or a piece of machinery. It was an anomaly: a small, matte-black quadcopter drone hovering silently in the gloom fifteen feet away. It was sleek, completely sound dampening, and equipped with a thermal lens that was now focused directly on him.

“Let’s raise the stakes, shall we?” the voice whispered, now coming through the drone’s tiny speaker. “You have thirty seconds to move horizontally. After that, I activate the internal security protocols for the service level. They’re less elegant than the acid, but they are far more comprehensive. Hint: look for the high-voltage mains.”

Thorne saw it then. The reason the antagonist was confident. The corridor wasn't empty. Wires, thick as his arm, snaked along the walls—exposed 440-volt power mains that crisscrossed the utility shaft, normally inert, but easily weaponized.

He glanced at his inner thigh, where the stolen Nightingale chip rested. It was still humming, but now the vibration was different, more urgent. It was heating up. The chip, designed for quantum-level data security, was likely broadcasting his thermal signature directly to the antagonist. He wasn't carrying data; he was carrying a beacon.

The drone began to move, its thermal lens tracking Thorne's exact position.

Thorne tucked the silver key into a safe pouch, took one last look at the crisscrossing high-voltage cables, and vaulted over a steam pipe into the dark maze of the service tunnels, running headlong into the darkness. He knew the thirty seconds wasn't a warning—it was a countdown to the killer turning the entire tunnel into a pressurized, high-voltage frying pan.