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Crawl through vents slick with condensation, shoulders scraping rusted metal as your crew whispers curses behind you. Spotlights carve the yard below—freeze when beams graze concrete. Three fences ahead: first chain-link, second topped with razor wire, third humming with enough voltage to crisp a body. Distant shouts. Boots on gravel. Maps flash in your head—maintenance tunnels flooded, guard rotations every seven minutes, sewer grate east of the laundry blocked last week. Jam the grid with a stolen wrench; sparks rain as alarms blare. Sprint. Someone trips. Don’t look back. Chopper blades churn the air. Duck behind dumpsters, breath burning. If they catch you, it’s solitary for months…then back to the drawing board with fresh bruises. Trust the plan. Trust the team. Move.
