The light was handheld. Not emergency lighting. That distinction mattered down here, where light wasn't illumination so much as intent made visible. Something had been found, claimed, carried.
It approached from the south end of the sub-basement, dragging shadows behind it in a way that made the corridor's dimensions seem negotiable, as though concrete itself might reconsider what shape it occupied if lit incorrectly.
Two figures behind it.
They sharpened into identity as they came closer.
The swordsman first. No ambiguity there. Even through bad light at twenty meters, his silhouette translated cleanly: density, width, the unmistakable grammar of a man built like a problem.
Hardin behind him, moving with that same deliberate rhythm he'd adopted since the shower block. Patient. Recalibrated. The movement of someone operating from a conclusion he hadn't reached quickly.
They had entered from the south. From the grate side.
