Ursula's declaration hung in the air, a chilling pronouncement that solidified the terror in the room. The reinforced steel panels that had sealed the windows now reflected the emergency lights, casting long, distorted shadows. The heavy oak doors were now an unyielding barrier. Two burly men in dark, unbranded suits stepped from behind a wool wall hanging that concealed a service entrance. They moved with a practiced, predatory ease, their eyes fixed on Jaga and Krystian. “Secure them,” Ursula commanded, her voice surprisingly steady, a viper’s hiss in the dimmed light. “Especially her. She has proven… unpredictable.” One of the men advanced on Jaga, reaching for her wrist. Krystian cut in, planting his boots between Jaga and the operative. “Step back,” he warned, his tone flat and level. The henchman paused, measuring the CEO. Jaga ignored the enforcers entirely. Her gaze locked onto the panoramic smart-glass dividing the conference suite from the executive lounge, now an opaque black sheet. The 'Redemption Rum Baba' instructions, delivered by Piotr, had been maddeningly vague, a series of seemingly nonsensical timings and pressure points, but a phrase had resonated in her mind: “*The highest pane holds the key to the deepest root.*” She remembered her past self’s meticulous obsession with the Tower’s infrastructure, how every design detail, every smart control, was a potential back door, a trap, or an escape. As the second man moved to flank Krystian, Jaga darted toward the panel. “Jaga, what are you doing?” Krystian hissed, momentarily distracted. Her vision narrowed, focusing on a specific quadrant of the smart-glass, a point where four panels met, just above eye level. Her fingers, guided by a forgotten instinct, pressed hard, then tapped twice, a precise, rhythmic sequence. It was a pressure point, a specific sensor known only to the architect and her, a legacy embedded within the very bones of the building. For a moment, nothing happened. The hirelings hesitated. Ursula smirked. “Fumbling for a secret exit, dear? Did your little gardener forget to mention building countermeasures?” Then, the entire floor shuddered. Not a gentle vibration, but a deep, resonant tremor that seemed to originate from the foundations of the tower itself. A high-pitched, piercing alarm blared, echoing off the concrete walls, assaulting their ears. The emergency lights, previously dim, now pulsed erratically, casting the room in a strobe-like chaos. A split second later, with a frantic hiss, the automated sprinkler system above them activated, drenching everyone in a cold, unexpected deluge. Water streamed down, blurring vision, soaking clothes, and sending papers scattering across the sleek table. Ursula's men staggered back, wiped out of stance by the deafening pandemonium. “What in the blazes?!” Ursula shrieked, wiping water from her eyes, her meticulously coiffed hair now plastered to her face. “Shut it down! Shut it all down!” She jabbed furiously at a console on the wall, but the screen merely flashed a stark red message: `SYSTEM OVERRIDE – ALL EXTERNAL COMMANDS DISABLED.` A crisp, mathematical clarity surfaced through Jaga's habitual confectionery haze. Her past self had truly thought of everything. The 'Redemption Rum Baba' wasn't just a collection of instructions; it was a master key, designed to trigger the Tower’s ultimate self-defense mechanism, a complete system reboot that neutralized all other controls. It was chaos, but controlled chaos, a diversion that would buy them precious seconds. Just as the two men regained their bearings, static tearing through their earpieces, a blast ripped through the facade. A concussive punch battered the steel-clad frame. One of the reinforced steel window coverings, the one facing the adjacent Rostok Tower, buckled inward with a tortured groan, then tore away with a screech of metal. Through the gaping hole, silhouetted against the stormy Varsovan sky, a team of black-clad figures rappelled down, their gear glinting in the emergency lights. Izolda Rostok landed lightly on the polished mahogany table, coat damp and trenchant. “Late as always, darling?” Izolda quipped, her voice cutting through the din, a sharp contrast to the blaring alarms and pouring water. She gestured with a gloved hand towards the newly created breach. “Your exit. Don’t dawdle.” Her tactical team fanned out, carbines raised, red target beams centering on Ursula's dazed thugs. Ursula, seeing her carefully laid trap unravel, let out a guttural cry of fury. Her eyes, narrowed to slits, fixed on Jaga. The corporate veneer cracked entirely, revealing a primal, desperate rage. “You!” she screamed, lunging forward, her hand outstretched, aiming for Jaga’s throat. Her intent was clear: if she couldn’t win, she would at least drag Jaga down with her. But Krystian was faster. He moved with a speed that belied his usual measured demeanor, intercepting Ursula’s charge. He didn’t push her away gently; he grabbed her by the shoulders, twisting her around and slamming her against the wall with surprising force. The sound of her head hitting the concrete was a sickening thud, momentarily silencing even the alarms. Ursula slumped, dazed, her eyes rolling. It was a raw, visceral act, a complete break from his previous, detached pragmatism, a physical declaration of where his true allegiances now lay. He stood over her, breathing hard, his stance rigid. “Enough,” Krystian snarled, his voice a low growl of pure menace. He didn't waste another glance on his aunt. He turned to Jaga, his hand firm on her arm. “We move. Now.” Jaga, Krystian, and Izolda, flanked by the tactical escort, scrambled through the rupture in the wall. The wind whipped at their faces as they emerged onto a narrow maintenance ledge, the rain lashing down. A sleek, black rotorcraft hovered precariously close, its powerful blades churning the air, its landing skids almost scraping the edge of the building’s upper helipad. Below them, far below, the sprawling cityscape of Varsova was a glittering mosaic. And from the distant streets, faint but growing louder, came the unmistakable wail of police sirens, converging on the OmniCorp Tower like hungry wolves. The escape was not yet complete.

The Final Flour