The stairwells were a blur of concrete and shadow. Every time he glanced at his wrist-comm, the numbers mocked him. ... He reached the mid-level security gates.

The code hummed against the dark glass of the terminal. In the year 2144, time wasn't just a measurement; it was a currency, a sentence, and for Elias Thorne, it was a ticking clock until his existence was "reformatted." The Final Hour

At , the lights flickered. A voice, small and distorted, cracked through his ear-link. "Elias? Can you hear me?"

... He scrambled through a ventilation shaft, the metal tearing at his jumpsuit.