Chapter 6: Trapped

The lock clicked solid beneath my fingers, immovable, unforgiving. I pressed my ear against the cold steel of the door and listened. Footsteps retreated down the corridor, Madam Curator’s heels clicking against concrete, growing fainter with each step. Then silence.

I was alone. Locked in the private archive. Surrounded by evidence that could destroy the gallery, with no way to escape and no one who knew where I was.

The bag hung from my shoulder, heavy with files and photographs and the USB drive that might contain everything. I had what I came for. But what good was evidence if I could not get it out?

Think, Nellie. You did not survive everything: your parents’ rejection, teenage pregnancy, a year of barely making ends meet, to be stopped by a locked door.

I set the bag down and began to search the room.

The filing cabinets were locked. Now I tried each drawer, and found them all secured. The screens on the walls displayed video feeds from around the gallery: the main exhibition hall, the corridors, the basement. I scanned them, looking for anything that might help me.

Sara was in her enclosure, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Tina was banging her SOS signal, relentless and steady. Marcus stood in his usual pose, silent and still. And in the basement, in one of the clinical cages, I saw Jasmine.

She was worse than before. Thinner, paler, her eyes open but unseeing. A tube ran from her arm to a bag of fluid, feeding her nutrients. Another tube, hidden from view, handled the rest. She was being kept alive, preserved, turned into the permanent exhibit Madam Curator had described.

I turned away from the screen, my stomach churning.

There had to be another way out. A vent, a service door, something. I ran my hands along the walls, searching for any irregularity, any seam, any weakness.

Nothing.

I tried the door again, throwing my shoulder against it, but it did not budge. The lock was electronic, controlled by the keypad I had used to enter. Without the code to disarm it, I was stuck.

Think. Think.

The code. Madam Curator had used 0415 to enter. Maybe she used the same code to exit.

I punched the numbers into the keypad. The lock clicked.

The door swung open.

I almost laughed with relief. Almost. But I caught myself, remembering the cameras, the motion sensors, the ever-present threat of Zara’s surveillance. I was not safe yet. Not even close.

I grabbed the bag, slipped through the door, and pulled it closed behind me. The lock clicked again, sealing the archive once more.

Now I just had to get out of the gallery.

The administrative wing was still quiet, the guards still on their rounds, the cameras still focused elsewhere. I moved quickly, keeping to the shadows, my bare feet silent on the concrete. The bag banged against my hip, heavier than it looked, full of evidence that could change everything.

I reached the main exhibition hall and paused at the door. Inside, I could see Sara’s enclosure, Tina’s, and Marcus’s. The participants I had come to know, the ones I had promised to save.

I could not leave without saying goodbye. Not after everything.

I slipped through the door and crossed to Sara’s enclosure. Her eyes opened as I knelt beside the hatch, and I saw something flicker across her face: surprise, then hope, then fear.

“You are alive,” she whispered.

“Barely.” I reached through the hatch and took her hand. “I got the evidence. The files, the photographs, everything. But I have to get it out of the building before they notice it is missing.”

“Go. Now. Before Gregor comes back.”

“I cannot leave you here.”

“You have to. If you stay, they will catch you, and then none of us will ever get out.” Her grip tightened on my hand. “Nellie, listen to me. You are our only hope. If you escape, you can bring help. You can save us. But if you stay, we are all lost.”

“Pete would say the same thing. He would tell me to run.”

“Then run. For him. For Daniela. For all of us.”

I held her hand for one more moment, memorizing the feel of her fingers intertwined with mine. Then I let go, stood up, and walked to the door.

“Goodbye, Sara,” I whispered.

“Not goodbye. See you soon.”

I slipped through the door and into the labyrinth.

The corridors were darker than I remembered, the emergency lights casting long shadows across the concrete. I moved quickly, retracing the path I had taken so many times before past the orientation room, past the employee entrance, toward the west door.

Fifteen feet. Ten. Five.

I reached for the handle.