Don't... don't go to that car.

The narrow pipe was cramped, forcing Arthur and Chloe to crawl on their hands and knees through a shallow stream of cold, rushing water that soaked through the knees of Arthur’s trousers and the hem of Chloe’s school skirt. The air was thick with the smell of old stone, damp mortar, and iron rust. Above them, muffled through thick layers of reinforced concrete and granite masonry, came the faint, resonant sounds of the city—the rumble of subway trains, the distant wail of police sirens, and the steady hum of urban life moving on entirely unaware of the desperate chase unfolding beneath its feet.

After what felt like hours of agonizing crawling, Arthur spotted a faint rectangle of yellowish light at the end of the pipe. He pushed forward, his shoulders scraping against the low brick ceiling until he reached a heavy iron grating secured with a simple padlock.

Using the heel of his shoe, Arthur kicked upward against the corner of the grate. The old rusted bolts snapped with a sharp crack, and the metal plate clattered onto a polished linoleum floor.

Arthur hoisted himself up first, then reached down to pull Chloe up into the brightly lit room above.

They tumbled onto the floor together, gasping for air. As Arthur pushed himself up on his elbows, he realized where they were: the basement archives room of the federal courthouse. Rows of steel shelving units lined the walls, filled with archival boxes, legal transcripts, and case files dating back decades. A lone night watchman sat at a small wooden desk near the heavy reinforced exit door at the far end of the room, eating a sandwich and reading a newspaper.

The watchman looked up sharply at the sudden noise, dropping his sandwich onto his paper plate with a clatter.

"Hey! What are you doing back there? How did you get in through the records hatch?" the watchman demanded, standing up and reaching for his radio.

"Listen to me," Arthur said, holding up his hands in a gesture of absolute surrender while stepping protectively in front of Chloe. "My name is Arthur Vance. My life and my daughter's life are in immediate danger from a corporate retrieval team operating under falsified municipal orders. I need to speak to the federal magistrate on duty right now."

The watchman stared at Arthur’s soaked suit, the mud on his trousers, and the pale, tear-streaked face of the young girl clinging to his sleeve. The institutional skepticism in the guard's eyes slowly gave way to dawning concern.

"Mr. Vance?" the watchman asked, squinting. "Your picture was on the security alert bulletin sent to all municipal checkpoints ten minutes ago. You're supposed to be detained by private transport."

"That bulletin was issued by the people trying to silence me," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a desperate, urgent pitch. "Look at my daughter. Look at what they've done. If you let them in here, we won't make it out."

Before the watchman could answer, a heavy, rhythmic pounding echoed against the reinforced exterior exit door at the end of the hall.

"Federal Courthouse security," a cold, flat voice called out through the heavy steel. "Open the archives door. We have an authorized federal retrieval warrant for Arthur and Chloe Vance."

The watchman froze, his hand hovering over the radio handset as he looked between Arthur and the heavy steel door.