Chapter 8: The Chase
The cold air hit Sierra's face like a slap the moment they burst through the emergency exit. Sirens wailed behind them, mixing with the crunch of boots on shattered glass and the rising drone of security drones lifting off nearby.
"This way!" the man barked, yanking her down a narrow alley between the concrete perimeter walls.
Sierra didn't ask questions. Her legs burned, lungs heaved, but adrenaline kept her moving. The memory of the Protocol's voice—You are not Sierra Vale—still rang in her skull like a warning bell. Something inside her had cracked open, and reality was starting to leak through.
They emerged into a loading bay bathed in emergency lights that flashed red like a beating heart. Surveillance beams sliced through the night, casting erratic shadows as spider-like security bots skated across the compound behind them. One wrong move, one breath too loud, and it would all be over.
"Where are we going?" she demanded, ducking behind a crate as one of the searchlights swept over their heads.
"To someone who can hide us," he replied, pulling out a palm-sized device. A faint buzz followed, and one of the security drones above glitched midair, spiraling downward until it smashed against the ground in a burst of sparks.
Sierra blinked. "You hacked a drone?"
"No," he said. "I distracted it."
"Great. So we're not dying—we're just delaying dying."
"Welcome to espionage," he muttered, tugging her up again.
They zigzagged past shattered crates, skidded through an open warehouse, and slipped through a barely visible maintenance hatch. Behind them, the air pulsed with pursuit: mechanical footsteps, comms chatter, a high-pitched tracking tone.
The tunnel they entered stank of oil and mold, the metal floor slick beneath their feet. The narrow corridor echoed every breath, every step, every whispered curse.
Sierra's thoughts spiraled with every pounding heartbeat. The Protocol hadn't just detected her—it had denied her. Her name, her identity, her past—possibly all a lie. And the man dragging her through this nightmare still hadn't even told her his name.
"Wait," she said, stopping mid-run. "I'm risking my life with someone I don't even know."
He stopped, barely turning. "Name's Knox."
"First or last?"
He cracked a dry smile. "Both."
She rolled her eyes but kept following. "Typical spy answer."
They reached a rusted ladder that groaned under their weight. One at a time, they climbed upward until they emerged into the ghostly skeleton of a train yard. Rusted rails ran beneath broken carriages, all blanketed in weeds and silence.
Sierra looked around. "We're still inside the outer zone, aren't we?"
"Just barely. No more cameras from here on," Knox said. "But that doesn't mean they won't send dogs."
He led her into the last car in the farthest corner—a decrepit passenger train with shattered windows and a bent door. Inside, everything was dust and decay, but it was shelter.
Knox shoved the door shut behind them and pulled down a steel bar that clicked into place.
Darkness fell.
Only the pale green glow of his wrist display lit their faces. Sierra collapsed onto a seat, heart thundering in her chest. Her clothes were soaked with sweat. Her limbs ached. But worst of all, her mind was at war.
She wanted to scream. To cry. To run back to a version of her life where none of this was real. But there was no going back.
"What happens now?" she asked, her voice a rasp.
Knox didn't answer immediately. He was scanning something on his wrist—possibly heat signatures, proximity scans. Finally, he said, "Now, we disappear. Then, we find the one person who might still know who you really are... and why the Protocol was built around you."
He paused, and for a brief moment, Sierra saw something flicker in his eyes—not fear, but regret.
"There's a reason it stopped spreading the moment you touched it," Knox added. "You weren't just in the system. You are the system. Or a part of it."
Sierra stared at him. "Are you saying I was… designed for it?"
"I'm saying," he said slowly, "that the Protocol didn't reject you because you were an intruder. It rejected you because you were its origin."
Her blood turned to ice.
She turned toward the grimy window, where the red glow of the compound still pulsed far in the distance. Somewhere back there, something intelligent and dangerous was searching for her—and she was beginning to understand why.
She wasn't running from the Protocol.
She was running toward her own truth.
And whatever that truth was… it had claws.