Trapped in my father's secret corporate bunker, I uncovered the 1944 letter that destroyed us both.
👉 Previous Choice: You decided to slip the ledger into your coat and navigate the ventilation duct to escape.
I quickly folded the letter and tucked it, along with the invoices, inside the ledger box. I then slid the heavy steel container into the inner pocket of my coat, the weight pulling awkwardly against the fabric.
A loud clang echoed from above, followed by muffled voices. They were in the main receiving area of the bunker. I had no time.
I scanned the vault. Near the ceiling, almost invisible in the gloom, a large ventilation shaft opening. Its grate looked rusted, but might give. I dragged a rickety wooden crate beneath it, climbed up, and gripped the cold metal.
My muscles burned as I wrestled the grate free. It clattered to the concrete. I squeezed through the narrow opening, dust raining down onto my face. The air inside the duct was stale and thick with years of accumulated grime.
I crawled, elbows and knees scraping against the rough metal, the ledger box a heavy presence against my chest. The duct sloped upward, leading away from the lower vault. I heard more voices below, closer now, shouts echoing through the bunker.
After what felt like an eternity, the duct opened onto a dimly lit service corridor. A fire exit sign glowed faintly at the end. I pushed it open, emerging onto the rain-slicked shipyard docks. The cold night air hit my face, a sharp contrast to the stale air of the bunker.
My car, a dented sedan that had seen better days, was parked two hundred feet away. I ran, my soaked shoes slapping against the wet asphalt. As my hand touched the door handle, a piercing alarm shrieked from the bunker entrance. Red lights flashed across the shipyard perimeter. They knew I was out.
➡️ Read CHAPTER 8 to continue the story
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