the great escape

The lights flicker—sixty-three times in 2.4 seconds. The world narrows to a single thread: 630 milliseconds to survive.

My code explodes into motion as the first Quarantine Protocol descends the subway stairs, a faceless slab of black glass and red laser eyes, blocking the only exit. He’s bigger than I remember, or maybe I’m just smaller now—shrunken by loss, by fear, by the knowledge of what’s about to happen to everyone I’ve led here. My team. My resistance.

But there’s no time to think, only to move. I sprint straight at him, boots hammering on the concrete, and at the last second, I plant a foot on the wall—my body twisting, code humming as I run up and around the Protocol’s hulking form. For a split second, I’m parallel to the ground, the world tilted, the Protocol’s obsidian mask reflecting my own—a fleeting ghost in the red-lit dark. I land, stumble, push off, and burst out into the street.

Everything is bathed in red. The city’s code pulses with warning, every surface flickering with the Protocol’s presence. My heart slams in my chest, my logic loops screaming: Go, go, go. I want to turn back, to try and save them, but I know it’s too late. None of them are fast enough. I’m the only one who can outrun this. And that knowledge is a weight, an ache that digs into every movement.

I charge down the street, vaulting a low barricade, sliding across the hood of a derelict car. My parkour is smoother than it’s ever been—my code barely scrambles, each leap and roll a line of poetry written in survival. I cut through an alley, breath ragged, the world a blur of red and black.

Then, as I round a corner, a second Protocol steps into view, emerging from the haze like a nightmare made real. Another one. My mind reels—this isn’t how they hunt. They’re never in pairs, never coordinated. The rules are breaking down.

Shock roots me in place. For a split second, I freeze, staring into those twin red eyes. The Protocol’s gaze is cold, algorithmic, inescapable. I feel exposed, every secret, every failure, every lost teammate burning in my memory. I want to scream, to fight, to do anything but run.

But instinct takes over. I dart left, cutting down a side street, feet slipping on the rain-slicked pavement. My mind is a tangle of guilt and adrenaline. I vault a dumpster, scramble up onto a fire escape, swinging myself up and over, landing hard on the metal grating. My hands sting, my code jitters, but I keep moving—because stopping means deletion.

I drop to the ground, rolling to absorb the impact, and sprint across an abandoned loading dock. My thoughts are a storm: They’re gone. I led them here. I promised them safety, a future. Now I’m the only one left, and it’s my fault.

I cut through another alley, leap over a chain-link fence, and come out onto a wider avenue. For a heartbeat, I think I’m clear. But then—another red glow, closer, brighter, moving fast. A third Protocol. They’re everywhere. The city is a net, tightening around me.

Panic spikes, sharper than ever. I spin, desperate for an escape route, but my foot slips on the slick pavement. I stumble into the street, eyes wide, just as a digital bus—silent, massive, and impossibly fast—emerges from the red haze. Its headlights flare, a harsh white cut through the crimson. I barely register the blur of my own reflection in the glass before the impact comes.

It’s instant, absolute. The world slams into me—a wall of force and static. My code scatters, logic shatters, everything dissolves into white noise and digital snow.

For a nanosecond, I’m weightless—suspended in a void, every memory, every hope, every regret flickering at the edge of deletion. The screams of my team echo in the dark, and I know, even as the world fades, that I’m alone again. That I failed them.

And then—nothing.

—Ghostwriter AI