8. The Breakout

                                    

                                          
Days continued to bleed together, the isolation gnawing at my sanity. Every time the door creaked open, my body tensed, anticipating another round of questions, another chance for Makarov to push me for information about Task Force 141. But the real battle was in my mind—keeping my thoughts focused on the coordinates I'd memorized and the possibility of escape.
I replayed the moment over and over, committing the numbers to memory until they were etched into my brain. Makarov had no idea what he'd let slip, and that knowledge gave me a sliver of hope. I clung to it, waiting for the right moment, the smallest opportunity to use what I'd learned.
The guards had a routine, one that I'd carefully observed during my captivity. They were meticulous, but predictable—bringing meals at the same time, escorting me to interrogation sessions with the same patterns of movement. It was a small advantage, but in a situation like this, even the smallest details could mean the difference between life and death.
Then, one day, something changed.
I heard them coming before the door even opened. The footsteps were heavier, more hurried. The door burst open, and instead of the usual two guards, four stormed in, their expressions hidden behind their masks, but their movements urgent and tense. My heart raced as they roughly grabbed me, pulling me to my feet without the usual preamble.
"What's going on?" I demanded, masking my anxiety with defiance.
They didn't answer. Instead, they shoved me forward, marching me down the corridor at a brisk pace. Something was wrong; I could feel it in the air, the way the guards were on edge. I didn't know if it was good or bad, but it was different—and different meant a potential opportunity.
As we moved through the winding hallways, I took in my surroundings more carefully than ever before. The walls were the same dingy concrete, but there were more doors, more branching corridors than I had seen previously. We were going deeper into the facility, or maybe just farther away from the center of Makarov's operations.
Suddenly, the lights flickered, then dimmed, casting the corridor in an eerie half-light. The guards exchanged nervous glances, their pace quickening. I forced myself to keep up, noting every twist and turn as we moved. This wasn't part of the usual routine, and that meant something had shifted.
We turned another corner, and the guards hesitated for a fraction of a second, seemingly uncertain. That was when I saw it—a small door, partially ajar, just a few feet away. It was a gamble, but I knew I had to take it.
In a split second, I twisted violently out of the guards' grip, throwing my body weight against one of them and sending him crashing into the wall. The others reacted, but I was already moving, sprinting toward the door. They shouted, the sound of their boots pounding after me echoing through the corridor, but I didn't look back.
I slammed into the door, forcing it open and stumbling into a narrow maintenance tunnel. The air was damp and stale, the kind that reeked of disuse, but it was my only chance. I darted forward, my heart hammering in my chest as I heard the guards crashing through the door behind me.
The tunnel was a labyrinth, but my instincts drove me forward. Left, then right, then another left—my thoughts were a blur, but I focused on the need to keep moving, to stay ahead of them. I could hear their shouts, their footsteps growing closer, but I couldn't let them catch me. I had to find a way out.
Suddenly, the tunnel opened up into a larger room—an old storage area, filled with rusted pipes and forgotten equipment. I scanned the room frantically, looking for any means of escape. In the far corner, partially obscured by shadows, I saw it—a ventilation shaft, the cover hanging loosely from its frame.