The transition from the cold, clinical silence of Room 412 to the damp, midnight air of the estate grounds felt like a rebirth. Mild moved through the shadows with the precision of a ghost, his heartbeat a frantic drum against his ribs. The three clicks on the intercom had been his starting pistol, and the laundry docks had smelled of industrial soap and freedom.
He had followed the tree line exactly as Maggie instructed, his lungs burning with the first un-rationed air he had breathed in weeks. But as he reached the old hunting lodge, the black sedan Maggie promised wasn't alone.
A man stood by the driver's side door, his silhouette tall and unmoving. Mild froze, his hand instinctively reaching for a heavy stone on the ground, his mind racing through escape routes.
