Service dog urgently barks at Pregnant Woman… But when officers Discovered the Reality, it was far too late…

Cassandra’s voice was sharp. What question? He looked at her, then back to Marlow. Helix wasn’t the end.

It was the first step. A prototype. And you, were the only one who survived the process.

Before anyone could react, an explosion rocked the hallway behind them. The building shook. Red lights flashed.

Sirens screamed to life. Security breach detected. Containment protocol initiated.

The system announced. Crest gave a bitter smile. You wanted the truth, he said.

Now they’ll make sure you never leave with it. They built her to be a secret. Now she’s their biggest liability.

The hallway erupted in red light and blaring sirens. Dust shook from the ceiling as metal doors slammed shut in sequence, cutting off escape routes one by one. Cassandra grabbed Marlow’s arm and pulled her back into the lab.

They’re sealing the exits. We’ve got 90 seconds, Max. Thatcher locked eyes with Dr. Crest.

You’re coming with us. But Crest didn’t move. His face had gone pale.

I was never meant to leave this place, he said. But she was. Marlow looked around, her breathing fast, but her mind calm, unnaturally calm.

The flashes in her memory returned like bursts of light, the blueprints of the compound, the maintenance shafts, the generator rooms. She wasn’t just remembering now. She was accessing knowledge she never studied, data she was never supposed to have.

There’s a sub-tunnel beneath lab three, she said suddenly. It leads to the old cooling chambers. Cassandra stared at her.

How do you know that? I don’t, Marlow whispered. But I do. They moved fast.

Thatcher took point, Cassandra covered the rear, and Marlow guided them through the maze of concrete. Bishop stayed glued to her side, moving with sharp, instinctual precision. Every corner they turned, Marlow was one step ahead, predicting camera angles, motion sensors, even guard patrols.

It wasn’t luck. It was coded survival. They reached a sealed bulkhead near the base of the lab.

This was welded shut years ago, Cassandra muttered. Not anymore, Marlow said. She placed her hand on the panel, and the lock hissed open.

The tunnel beyond was narrow, cold, and filled with the hum of forgotten machines. As they moved, Thatcher turned to her. That wasn’t muscle memory.

That was programming. Marlow nodded. I think my mother hid more than just a box in that piano.

She hid knowledge. Maybe even an entire set of instincts. Cassandra glanced back.

You’re not just remembering this place, you were designed to escape it. Behind them, footsteps thundered through the corridor. R.A.O.N. operatives, fully armed, moving fast.

Gunfire echoed as they reached the edge of the tunnel. Thatcher fired back, covering the group as they pushed forward. A bullet ricocheted, striking the wall inches from Marlow’s head.

Bishop growled and lunged, forcing one of the soldiers to fall back. In the chaos, Thatcher threw a flash grenade into the hallway, buying them a few seconds. They emerged from the tunnel into a dry ravine behind the facility.

A van waited, Cassandra’s back up. As the vehicle sped into the desert night, Marlow clutched the pocket watch from the vault, still ticking steadily in her hand. What now? she asked, her voice shaking for the first time.

Thatcher looked at her, his eyes hard. Now we stop running, he said. And we start hunting, Cassandra nodded.

Because whoever built this program, didn’t just create you. She looked toward the dark horizon. They created others.

If she was the only one, why did the files list numbers? The safe house in rural New Hampshire was quiet, too quiet. It was the kind of silence that didn’t feel peaceful, but tense, like the world was holding its breath. Inside the cabin, Marlow sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through files they had taken from Crest’s lab.

Pages were scattered around her, worn documents, printed photos, and tapes labeled with cryptic codes. Thatcher leaned against the doorframe, watching her with guarded eyes. Cassandra sat at the dining table with a notepad, trying to build a timeline from the fragments of information.

But it was Marlow who found it, a folded page tucked inside a worn manual. No title, no context, just a list of names, each preceded by the same designation, 6A. She stared at the paper, the names almost glowing against the dim light of the room.

I thought I was the only one, she said softly. But I’m not. Thatcher stepped closer, looking over her shoulder.

There were five names on the list. Marlow’s was the last. These aren’t just files, he said.

They’re identities. Subjects. Marlow pointed to the name.

Kane Ward. I’ve seen him in my dreams. A boy in snow, running…