The low beat of the heart monitor reverberated in Ian’s ears as wakefulness crept into his body, his bruised eyelids gradually opening to reveal a pair of clear, dark pools of black.

Panic disorientated him momentarily, seizing a gasp of breath before it settled into the pits of his stomach.

He struggled to move his body, rising with a muffled groan. The thin white sheet of fabric covering him fell onto his lap as he gazed around the empty, pristine white room.

Lifeless and orderly, the four white walls without a window faced him. The metal door, firmly shut, mockingly stood at the corner.

The time.

His gaze dropped to the watch fastened around his wrist, a shackle, a handcuff that was a reminder of his imprisonment. Lightly, he tapped it once.

At the top corner of the long rectangular surface that hung around his wrist like a bracelet, small numbers appeared.

Day three.

23:30.

There was a faint fluctuation in his vision, the ghosting of panic that drifted back into his stomach as quickly as it appeared. He raised his sharp chin, staring expressionlessly at the door.

Resolutely, he tore the needle out of his arm that was infusing an unknown liquid, watching a trickle of blood smear over his skin. Then, he tucked in under the blanket to create an illusion, taking in a deep breath.

When he opened his mouth again, he screamed. “Help me—! Help me—!”

He kicked the single, flat pillow towards the wall, the sheets sliding onto the ground as red smeared the unblemished white. The IV stand was knocked over, spilling onto the ground.

Footsteps hurried down the hall, and white-robed doctors burst into the room. There were two.

“What are you doing?! Stand down, F-28!”

There were tazers strapped to their belt, designed to immobalize temperamental Guides. Ian’s back curled, a hand pressed flat on the creaking bed as he gazed at them coldly through a curtain of black hair.

Like a wild beast ready to leap, ferocious and frightening.

The doctors immediately moved their hand to belt, but Ian was faster, shooting off the bed with alarming speed. He spiraled through the air, like a soaring bird without wings.

The doctors stagnated, transfixed by the elegant, sweeping arc the Guide’s body drew.

Ian took the split hesitation to flip behind them and deliver a decisive chop to their neck. He accurately aimed for their nerve tendons, and they crumpled to the floor wordlessly.

Ian crouched down lazily, digging through their pockets. There would be no pretending anything—either he reached that Esper and struck a deal, or he would be restrained and punished.

He found a small pair of scissors, razor sharp. Tugging his hair over his shoulders, he bunched up the long, raven strands and ruthlessly tore through them.

It remained a little long, with uneven layers, but a burden lifted off his shoulders with the weight drifting to the ground to lay with the unconscious doctors. Ian stood slowly, raising his wrist to glance at the time.

23:40.

20 minutes.

He bent down, slipping the key card into his hand as he pressed it against the internal lock. It wasn’t as stealthy or quiet as he intended, but nothing ever worked the way they were planned to. He pressed his ear against the metal door, listening for any sounds.

There wasn’t even a breath.

Naturally, they wouldn’t assume it to be necessary to maintain high security for an injured F-rank. But the cameras would be rolling.

17 minutes.

The hospice area was located on the third floor, with the highest security. He was placed in the furthest end.

16 minutes.

Ian slipped on the doctor’s coat, fastening a button to fall over his white, draping clothes. He placed the pair of leather shorts over his bare ones, scrunching his nose with slight disgust.

It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be. The monitors were always on, but Ian saw the guards slacking in the monitor rooms at times. The security was limited to the rooms, not the medical bay where only malfunctioning tools lay.

He nudged a borrowed pair of glassed over his high nose bridge and snipped a few uneven strands of hair.

Then, glancing briefly at the pile of long hair that accompanied him for years, he lifted his foot and stepped over it.

15 minutes.

He’d glimpsed at the layout of the facilities structure before—committing it to memory. There was a lot an F-rank could do; a lot that underestimating him allowed him to do. It served them right.

He wouldn’t reach the luxury rooms designed to house the highest ranking Espers. Not if he continued down the hallways.

Ian continued walking, each step making a crisp echo down the halls.

He pivoted at the bathrooms, tapping the card. It beeped once, and the door slid open, allowing him to slip inside. He coughed, turning into one of the stalls after confirming it was empty.

Balancing on the edge of the toilet bowl, he fiddled with the sturdy access card that had a single sharp point.

Ian stretched up, fitting it against the screw. It slipped several times, slowly inching each screw around and around until the first loosened, falling into his waiting palm.

Then the second. And the third. The fourth.

Ian caught the metal cover easily, carefully placing it on the ground. He groped around the entrance, bracing his arms before dragging his body up.

His legs kicked on empty air, the rubber backing of the shoe providing resistance on the wall as he pushed himself through. A maze of metal waited before his ducked head.

Ian sucked in a breath as cold air swiveled around him, blowing into the loose jacket. The ventilation systems were simpler.

10 minutes.

He shuffled, uncomfortably and awkwardly at first, before slowly gaining speed. He maneuvered himself skillfully through the vents, embodying the energy of a sneaking rat searching for cheese.

His cheese was freedom guarded by a particular cat.

A beautiful, expensive cat with little more than their appearance.

Fear inched back into his lungs, reaping slivers of his breath as the walls closed in around him. Ian resisted the distant throb of terror, the compression of his chest trapped in the small space.

He peered down one of the grates, noticing a luxury room with a large bed decorated with scattered rose petals, and the strong smell of flowers and alcohol intertwining.

A person walked into the view, slipping off a black silk robe. The fabric draped onto the ground, revealing two firm buttocks and a narrow waist. The man hummed off-tune to himself, groping his chest with a nod of approval.

Ian froze.

He shuffled past expressionlessly. ‘Nope.’

If that was the luxury room belonging to that Esper, he’d rather face punishment instead. A person with taste that terrible was a person he never wanted to meet.

5 minutes.

He decided to ignore the room covered in dozens of portraits of a single person modeling various poses.

He didn’t even glance down at the living room containing two people and loud ambiguous noises that included certain nicknames that he’d rather bleach his ears than remember.

3 minutes.

The next vent Ian turned, a cloud of steam trickling out and the sound of water falling filled his ears. He hesitated, slowly inching closer like a peeping worm as he stopped over the grates, glancing down.

The steam dispersed gradually, revealing the blurry silhouette of a muscular figure, scars running across their skin and painting memories over their muscles. Their ice-blonde hair brushed back, dripping with water.

The man lowered his hands and tilted his head. He reached out and turned off the water, silence stretching into the mist.

2 minutes.

“I left my front door unlocked for you.” The low, indifferent voice drifted into the vents with the steam. Underneath Ian, the grate started to tremble. “Although I didn’t specify which entrance.”

1 minute.

Ian moved back, but it was too late. Ice embedded into the grate and he jerked back his frostbitten fingers.

The screws violently untwisted, and the grate flung off as Ian’s body fell through. He tumbled through the air, firmly landing between two outstretched arms, steadily catching his body.

The shower’s heat filled the air as water seeped into Ian’s clothes. He felt a firm press against his back, tangled with one of his outstretched legs. The loose pants slipped, revealing a defined calf.

The Esper’s gaze dropped thoughtfully. “Did you make it?”

Ian thrust up his watch as water dripped between his eyebrows, following the ridges of his face. His black eyes appeared misted, gazing directly at the other with victory flashing in his eyes.

23:59.

“Made it.”