The agent cut left, then burst right—no blade, just bone and intent. Caleb let it enter the space and took the space away, sliding along its shoulder, the card flat against sternum for a single cold punctuation. The shutter rang like a dull bell when the body hit and rewrote its posture.
The white ring in the wall widened another careful inch.
[EXIT OPENING]
"Down," Caleb told Don.
"Staying down," Don said, every word kneeling.
The agent abandoned neat work. It came reckless—hands, elbows, a hint of a headbutt, trying to paste him to corrugation and turn physics into policy. Caleb dropped weight, hips under, knees soft, became a narrow question, and slid out where answers were thin. He let the card skim ribs, collarbone, the hinge of a shoulder—tap, tap, tap—information, not injury.
[TIMER: 01:58]
The hole brightened; the air leaned toward permission. The hum from the lights lifted half a note and held.
"When it's big enough, go," Caleb said, not looking back.
"You?" Don asked.
"I'm invited."
The agent darted for the knife again on muscle memory alone. Caleb stepped across the line with the lazy efficiency of a closing door and planted his heel on the blade. The steel tried to argue; mass won. The agent pivoted to his hands, reaching for the rectangle like a thief going for a steering wheel.
He rotated his wrist and offered the white ring.
The touch jolted imitation nerves; the grasp misfired.
[ATTEMPT: DENIED][ITEM CONTROL: MAINTAINED]
The agent recovered fast, crowding, trying to smother him in angles. Caleb gave one inch and nothing more. He drove an open palm into the jaw hinge to buy a heartbeat, then used the heartbeat to breathe.
[EXIT OPENING]
The circle grew to saucer, to plate. The hall's shadow changed sides.
"Don," he said, voice steady. "Now."
Don scrambled from cover and limped for the light like a man obeying a fire drill he finally respected. The agent saw the motion as a leak in the plan and turned to fix it. Caleb stepped into its path and let the card be boundary instead of shield. Forearm met rectangle; bone learned it had limits.
"Go," Caleb said again, without looking.
Don hit the edge of white, winced like light could bruise, then vanished through it—no pop, no drama, just subtraction done clean.
[NON-PARTICIPANT EXIT: COMPLETE]
The agent didn't like subtraction. It came harder, inventing a weapon from the heel of its hand. Caleb took the strike on forearm, guided, bled the force along matte black, and slid his shoulder into sternum again to remind the body it wasn't alone in the hallway.
[TIMER: 01:12]
The hole widened to door. The buzz of the lights lost patience for pretense.
The agent chose arrogance over math. It lunged for the white like pride could own it.
Caleb matched pace and angle, put his back to the ring without touching it, and held the card out between them, ring facing ring. For a microsecond the two absences recognized each other; something in the air tightened.
The agent's hands twitched when they crossed that field—like static, like rules. It shoved through anyway, buying hurt with speed.
Caleb moved last. He let the shove spend itself and then wasn't where it expected. The corridor tilted a degree in his inner ear; he ignored it. He gave the agent his shoulder again—half turn, hard line—sent it into the shutter. Corrugation sang. The agent rebounded, hunting purchase, hunting old habits.
[EXIT THRESHOLD: STABLE]
He edged left, slid his heel off the pinned knife, and let it stay a problem for no one.
The agent made a choice that was going to be wrong no matter what: split attention. It cut eyes from him to the door-that-wasn't and back. That fraction of a fraction was enough.
Caleb stepped through the empty place in its guard and put the rectangle to its sternum a second time—firmer, a stamp that wasn't physical and still registered. Whatever wore that body reset like a cheap modem.
[PROGRESS: SUFFICIENT][STANDBY FOR EXIT]
The circle brightened to something you could name without belonging to it. The hum in the ceiling arranged itself into a chord he didn't have a word for.
"Detective Stone," he said, because sometimes you anchor yourself with people you can't see. The name went nowhere useful and still helped.
The agent abandoned subtlety. It came ragged-fast, empty hands turned into weapons by will alone, a final, ugly bet. Caleb let it commit and then refused his own fear—two steps, a pivot, shoulder past shoulder, the card glancing the sternum once more for punctuation. He slipped under the reaching arms, made space where there hadn't been any, and faced the door.
The heat of the agent's next breath brushed the back of his neck. He didn't gift it acknowledgement.
He raised the card; ring kissed ring; the doorway took him and the arcade snapped off like a switch.