McConnell leads you through the facility's lower levels, fo…

McConnell leads you through the facility's lower levels, following clearly marked corridors designed for easy personnel movement. The emergency lighting casts long shadows across abandoned research equipment and empty workstations.

"The research wing is ahead," McConnell explains, weapon ready as you approach. "It was sealed off after the incident. I should still have full clearance for security oversight."

You eventually reach a formidable security checkpoint - the entrance to the abandoned research wing. The reinforced door bears clear warning symbols and a standard Prometheus security panel.

A deactivated maintenance bot sits in an alcove, its hydraulic arms designed for lifting and repair work, though its power core appears to have been removed.

A small maintenance access panel near the floor has been partially pried open, its cover hanging by a single screw. Inside, bundles of fiber optic cables glow intermittently, some severed, others reconnected in unusual configurations.

"If we can get through this research wing," McConnell continues, "there should be access to maintenance tunnels on the far side that connect throughout the undercity. Those tunnels would be our best chance to avoid the response team."

He places his palm against the access panel. The scanner recognizes his credentials with a confirming beep, and the door's locking mechanisms disengage with a series of satisfying clunks. But when the system attempts to retract the heavy door, there's a grinding mechanical sound followed by a harsh error tone.

The door has opened about eight inches before completely jamming. The panel flashes: "MECHANICAL FAILURE - DOOR SERVOS UNRESPONSIVE"

Through the narrow gap, a faint bluish bioluminescence pulses from within the research wing, casting strange, shifting shadows. Something glistens in the gap between door and frame - not water, but a viscous substance that catches the light in unusual ways.

For a moment the only sound in the corridor is a rhythmic clicking from beyond the door - a pattern that stops abruptly whenever any of you move, resuming only after moments of stillness. The air feels as if the facility itself is holding its breath.

With a certain unease McConnell examines the door. "The main servo mechanisms that control the door are housed on the opposite side. Something's probably interrupting the track."

He then checks his tactical display. "Eleven minutes," his voice cutting through the oppressive quiet.

What do you want to do?