The alarm has been screaming for four minutes. Yellow haze bleeds through the east corridor grating - thicker than it should be, faster than any drill ever simulated. You can taste the bite of it at the back of your throat even through your respirator. You counted heads at the muster point. Thirty-one out of thirty-two. Darro Finch is still inside. Behind you, Sten Marlow is shouting into his radio, his voice cracking at the edges - ordering you to stand down, seal the corridor, call it a loss. The same voice that buried your reports three times over. To your left, Ovra Keld meets your eyes and says nothing. Then she nods toward a maintenance hatch no official map ever labeled. You have maybe six minutes before the east wing is unpassable. One colleague to pull out. One supervisor trying to stop you. One engineer who finally chose a side.