Hanna didn't turn back. She watched the heavy blast doors begin to slide shut at the far end of the corridor. To her left, the red glow of an Enforcer squad's optical sensors rounded the corner. She felt the cold rush of adrenaline—the "futile" part of the mission was finally coming to pass.
She bypassed the first security kiosk with a flick of her wrist, a bypass chip clicking into place. But as the door hissed open, the familiar chime of a Level 4 alert echoed through the hall. They knew.
Hanna stood before the iron-slicked gates of the Sector 2 detention center, the weight of the encrypted drive burning a hole in her pocket. The air in the Lower District was thick with the metallic tang of recycled oxygen and the humming drone of Enforcer patrols. This was the moment the resistance had whispered about—the "Futile Spark"—a mission labeled as suicide by the cautious and a necessity by the desperate.