The lockdown had immobilized the institute's internal atmosphere to ice. The persistent, grinding thrum of what was occurring beneath their feet was no longer dangerous; it was a countdown. It was something they could sense in the soles of their shoes, in the clinking of the beakers on the shelves, in the fine dust falling from the panels on the ceiling. The hunters were no longer making their way by touch. They were excavating.
Ken Tanaka forged through the chaos with a chill, grotesque calm. The moment for terror, for uncertainty, was gone. The tempest rapped at the door, and his only duty now was to make De Vries's victory a Pyrrhic one.
He moved to the main server core, the brain of the institute. No passwords or encrypting for him. A physical override key, a relic from the building
