Elias started walking faster. Not running; the floor was slick in places and his side would not forgive it. He took the first left, then checked himself. Wrong turn. Back. In the half-dark every branch looked more alike than it had minutes ago.

A shape crossed the far end of the next passage and held there long enough for him to see a narrow shoulder and one pale hand on the wall. When he moved toward it, it vanished. Another silhouette appeared behind the mesh of an upper walkway. Then two more below, keeping distance, matching pace.

“Listen,” he called, and hated the thin strain in his voice. “I’m leaving.”

No answer. Only the sound of metal touched lightly by moving weight.

He found the shaft corridor by the ladder rails bolted to the wall and the damp hotter air moving upward. Relief was so sharp it almost undid him. He reached the landing, caught the ladder, and started climbing.

Below, a click sounded. Then several, answering each other.

He climbed harder. The shaft felt steeper going up. His injured shoulder dragged with every pull. Rust bit his palm where an old edge had lifted. Ten rungs. Fifteen. He did not look down until voices—or something close to voices—rose under the fan noise, soft and quick, not words he knew but not animal sound either.

Three figures had reached the bottom landing. One stepped onto the ladder. Another stayed back, watching. Their faces were turned up to him, pale ovals in red light.