Nine shots.

  That was all he had left.

  Sol could feel it—like nine sharp, heavy bullets of darkness resting in his veins. If he burned through them recklessly, he'd be empty. No Dark Projectile. No Echo Shield. No way to fight or run.

  And if he'd trusted his aim sooner… if that first time using Dark Projectile he'd gone for heads and hearts instead of safer chest shots, he'd have spent even less.

  He exhaled through his nose.

  "I still don't have nearly enough energy," he muttered.

  No time to dwell.

  He bent, snatched the middle-aged researcher's ID card from the floor, and strode to the heavy metal door. A small card reader blinked beside it, green and red lights alternating in a mechanical rhythm.

  Sol swiped the card.

  Beep.

  The light turned solid green. The lock thunked, and the door slid open with a low hiss.

  No iris scan. No palm print.

  Lucky.

  If they'd used anything more than a card, he'd have been stuck.

  He slipped through and broke into a run, shoes pounding down the stark corridor toward the next barrier.

  Behind him, the facility woke up.

  Alarms wailed overhead, a shrill, piercing sound that cut through concrete and steel. Red strobes began to pulse along the walls. Voices crackled over intercoms.

  "Move, move!"

  "Teams ready—intercept the escapee!"

  Orders flew down the line. Armed personnel scrambled into motion, boots slamming against metal grates as they rushed to choke off every exit.

  Some sprinted straight toward Sol's section.

  Others fanned out to guard the outer doors, waiting for him to slam into their net.

  In the cell blocks, inmates jolted awake or lurched to their feet, hands gripping cold bars as they craned their necks to see.

  "Who is it this time?" someone whispered. "Didn't some idiot already try to escape a few days ago?"

  "Haven't they learned?" another scoffed. "Moron's just asking to get killed."

  A mix of surprise, ridicule, and weary resignation rippled through the rows.

  "I wanna see who's dumb enough to run again…"

  The freckled youth who had talked with Sol in the yard pressed closer to his door, heart thudding.

  A familiar figure flickered in his mind.

  "…No way," he breathed. "It can't be him. He just tried to escape. He's still beat to hell."

  "We'll find out tomorrow," someone else chuckled darkly. "Then we can see who it is after he's caught."

  Their voices faded into the background.

  Sol was already close to the second door.

  Shouts echoed behind him—closer now.

  "Stop right there! Don't move or we shoot!"

  "Hands up! Down on your knees!"

  He skidded around a corner and came face-to-face with five armed guards. Rifles were leveled, black muzzles trained squarely on his chest. Safety catches clicked off with a series of dry snaps.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Sol didn't slow.

  He knew their type. Knew how this place thought.

  As a test subject, he was worth more alive than dead.

  They could beat him. Break him. Cut him open. But bullet holes through vital organs? That ruined their data.

  Too expensive.

  He took advantage of that hesitation.

  He reached the card reader, swiped the ID again, and kept his peripheral vision locked on the guards, every muscle coiled.

  If a finger so much as twitched on a trigger, he'd throw up Echo Shield. Or snap sideways with Spatial Shift and let the bullets sing past.

  The door beeped and eased open.

  No shot came.

  The guards held their fire, eyes darting between each other, waiting for reinforcements. They were confident. Cautious enough not to ruin their prize. Willing to let others close in and swarm him.

  Sol slipped through the gap and ran, breathing hard, toward the final barrier.

  The corridors blurred—white walls, gray floors, flashing red lights, his own ragged breaths roaring in his ears.

  When he rounded the last bend, he slowed.

  At the main gate, waiting for him like a wall of metal and flesh, stood dozens of armed personnel. Their rifles were up, barrels gleaming cold under the overhead lights.

  The exit itself was right there.

  Clear. Solid. Unobstructed by anything except the thick, reinforced metal door and the men blocking it.

  The soldiers watched him approach with open amusement, confidence written all over their faces.

  Sol walked forward, cautious.

  He lifted the ID card and swiped it against the last reader.

  Nothing.

  A flat chime sounded, followed by a mechanical voice: "Verification error."

  Of course.

  Understanding slid into place.

  That was why they hadn't stopped him earlier. Why no one had tackled him at the second door. They'd been herding him.

  Letting him come all the way here just to crush whatever hope he had left, right at the threshold.

  Their smirks widened as they watched his attempt fail.

  Captain Ken stepped out from the line, rifle casually slung but ready, a superior sneer tugging at his lips.

  "Give it up," he called. "This is a special alloy door. You're not opening it."

  He lifted his chin, eyes raking over Sol like he was something stuck to his boot.

  "And don't even think about using your powers, freak. The second you twitch, we turn you into a sieve."

  The men around him chuckled. Fingers tightened on triggers. They believed in their numbers, in their weapons, in the steel at their back.

  They didn't believe in him.

  Sol looked from the door to the mocking faces, then smiled faintly.

  "Goodbye," he said.

  [Spatial Shift Experience +1]

  Space folded.

  For a split second, the world twisted—the air around him going thin and strange. Then he was simply… gone.

  From their perspective, his body flickered once and disappeared.

  Captain Ken's grin died on his face.

  "This… this is impossible!" he exploded, voice cracking with sudden rage.

  The others gaped, stunned. Their eyes searched the empty space where Sol had stood, disbelief etched into every line of their faces.

  Teleportation?

  No one had mentioned teleportation.

  The reports through their earpieces had talked about some low-tier light absorber, nothing about vanishing into thin air.

  Ken's shock snapped into fury. He grabbed a rifle from the nearest man and fired blindly at the floor and walls where Sol had been.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  The shots tore chunks out of concrete and sent sparks skittering from metal, but no blood splattered, no body fell.

  After a moment, the echo of gunfire died.

  Ken's jaw clenched.

  "Open the gate!" he barked. "He's outside—move!"

  "He can't have gone far! Go!"

  They surged into motion, yelling orders as systems whirred to life and the massive door began to grind open.

  By the time the first boots pounded past the threshold, Sol was already out in the open air, sprinting toward a narrow road that led away from the facility.

  The sky above him felt huge and strange after so long under low ceilings and barred windows. Cold wind slapped at his face, stinging his lungs with every breath.

  Panting.

  His heart hammered in his chest, heavy and erratic. He hadn't exercised properly in months—maybe longer. His injuries still ached deep under his skin, muscles protesting every step.

  He pushed harder.

  As he ran, his eyes swept the area ahead.

  There.

  Near a cluster of parked vehicles, two researchers in white coats had just stepped outside. For a heartbeat, they froze as they noticed him barreling toward them.

  Then their faces changed.

  Panic.

  They spun to run.

  Too slow.

  A dark point of energy gathered at Sol's fingertip and shot forward.

  [Dark Projectile Experience +1]

  The bolt drilled through the air with a faint, vicious hum and slammed into one researcher's abdomen.

  He crumpled with a strangled cry, hands clutching at his stomach as if he could hold himself together. Blood seeped between his fingers, eyes rolling in pain and shock.

  "Run again," Sol called to the other, voice cold, "and next time I aim for your head."

  He could still feel his reserves—only enough left to power seven more abilities. Seven shots. Seven shields. Seven shifts.

  Barely anything.

  His brows knitted for a moment.

  The remaining researcher, face pale and sweat-slick, skidded to a halt and slowly raised his trembling hands.

  "Easy, man," he stammered. "Don't shoot. Let's talk, okay?"

  "Where are your car keys?" Sol demanded, tone like ice. "Now."

  He jerked his chin at the parked vehicles.

  "Walk me to your car," he added. "No tricks. You don't want to end up like him, do you?"

  The man swallowed hard, glancing at his groaning colleague on the ground.

  "N-no," he blurted. "Here."

  He fumbled in his pocket, fingers shaking, and dragged out a set of keys. He pointed with a jerky motion at a nearby sedan.

  "T-that one. That's my car."

  A deep boom rolled out from behind them.

  The facility's main gate slamming fully open.

  Sol's expression tightened.

  He snatched the keys from the man's hand and grabbed him by the arm, yanking him toward the vehicle.

  They'd only managed a few strides when the crack of gunfire split the air from the direction of the gate.

  "Ah!"

  The researcher screamed, the sound sharp and high, as the first bullets began to fly.