The Security Room is cloaked in shadow, lit only by the dying pulse of a red standby light on the far wall. Dust hangs in the air, disturbed by your cautious steps. A chair lies overturned beside a cluttered desk, its wheels frozen mid-skid like someone bolted in panic. The bitter scent of stale coffee mixes with the coppery tang of old electronics. A half-empty mug sits forgotten, its contents cold, rim smudged by trembling lips that didn’t wait to finish the drink. Whoever was here last — they left fast.

You sift through the drawers with trembling fingers, metal screeching quietly as they slide open. Beneath scattered security logs and useless ID badges, you find something useful — a laminated Park Map, dog-eared but intact. It’s creased with years of use, but it shows the evacuation pad, ranger stations, and even the maintenance tunnels. Tucked behind it, wrapped in a torn sleeve of uniform fabric, is a flare — standard issue, scratched but functional. You pocket both, feeling a small ember of hope ignite in your chest. You’re not out yet… but at least now, you know where out is.