The factory smells like rust and old chemicals. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting the cracked concrete floors in pale, stuttering light. You built this place. You ran every procedure here. You told yourself the children were progress. They didn't die. You hear something move in the vent above you - slow, deliberate, wrong. Your keycard is slick in your palm. Every exit you map in your head has already been cut off. They know this building as well as you do. They grew up inside its walls. The door ahead is your last option. You throw the stool blocking it aside and swipe your card. The lock clicks. You pull it open. Two long legs stand on the other side. Still. Waiting.