CHAPTER 8: GET OUT
- Brandon Cawood
- Mar 18
- 2 min read
Miles bursts through the doors of NEURON Systems headquarters. Rain and wind crash in behind him scattering across the polished floor. The doors slam shut.
He is drenched from head to toe, leaving puddles with every step.
His hair is matted to his forehead.
His eyes wild.
Security snaps into position. Rifles up.
The sharp click of safeties and shifting boots ricochets across the glass walls of the vast lobby.
One guard squints.
Recognition flashes across his face.
“Mr. Tanner?”
Miles walks on.
“Stand down!” the guard shouts, lowering his weapon.
The others hesitate, trying to read the room.
Miles keeps moving.
Another guard steps into his path.
“Mr. Tanner—sir—” he starts. “Is everything—”
Miles stops.
His eyes lock onto the guard.
Cold. Focused. Wrong.
“Get out,” he says, low.
The guard freezes.
Miles pivots, scanning the lobby. His voice rises.
“Everyone… GET OUT!”
Stillness.
He hears quiet conversations break out across the room.
Miles’ jaw tightens.
He storms past the security desk, grabs the phone, and studies the base.
Finds it.
The intercom button.
He presses it and lifts the receiver to his lips.
“This is Miles Tanner,” he says, his voice ringing throughout the building.
“As most of you know, the offices are closed tomorrow. That has changed. I need you to leave now. Right now.”
Throughout the entire structure, conversations die instantly.
Miles’ gaze drifts from one guard to the next.
“If you are still in this building in ten minutes,” he says, harsh and cutting, “you no longer work here.”
He waits for a beat.
The building creaks to life.
Footsteps from the floors above echo throughout the lobby.
Miles slams the phone down.
The sharp crack cuts through the space.
The guards part as he walks through them.
He passes the elevators without slowing.
Their reflective surfaces catch him as he moves—warped, fractured.
At the far end of the lobby, a massive reinforced door stands embedded in the wall. Its surface a dark composite laced with fine seams of steel. No handle. No visible hinges. Just precision. Deliberate. Built to withstand anything.
Miles approaches and stops two feet away.
A thin beam of light projects from the middle of the door and sweeps across his eyes.
“Retinal signature verified.”
He places his palm against the surface.
A low, resonant hum.
“Biometric match.”
“Voice authorization.”
He clears his throat and speaks, “Miles Tanner.”
“Identity Confirmed.”
Deep within the walls, internal locks disengage.
Heavy. Mechanical.
The floor begins to vibrate.
Then—
The door splits clean down the center.
Each half—nearly two feet thick— retracts into the walls with a controlled, hydraulic glide.
Cold white light spills out.
Miles steps inside.
He pauses just beyond the threshold and turns back toward the lobby.
His face is hard and determined.
He finds the guard from earlier.
“Lock up before you leave.”
The doors surge inward—
and slam together with a thunderous, airtight clank.
Sealing Miles inside.
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