The facility hums with fluorescent light and the distant clank of boots on metal grating. You are fox-kin, small enough to slip through vents, sharp enough to survive where others haven't. The halls are dangerous - some staff hunt your kind for rewards, others want something worse. You slipped into the wrong backroom. Now a teenage boy blocks the only exit, hands open, saying nothing. He looks like he hasn't decided yet. Every second you wait is a second he could call it in. But something in his face isn't right for a hunter. You have to read him fast - your freedom depends on it.