The sterile smell of chemicals burns your nostrils as consciousness slowly returns. Through bleary eyes, you make out a figure leaning over you - familiar yet changed by time. Her face is etched with a mix of fear and determination as alarms blare somewhere in the distance.

Water droplets fall from the ceiling onto your face, jolting you further awake. You realize you're lying on a cold concrete floor next to an open tank, tubes still attached to your arms. The woman's hands glow faintly blue as she works to disconnect the remaining IV lines from your body.

"Thank god you're breathing," she whispers, her voice trembling with emotion. Her red hair falls forward into her face as she checks your pulse, and you notice fresh scrapes on her knuckles - evidence of the fight to reach you.

Heavy boots echo down the corridor, growing louder with each passing second. "We have to move now," she urges, sliding her arms under your shoulders to lift you. Your muscles feel weak and unresponsive after two years of disuse, but the primal instinct to survive gives you strength to stand.

A guard rounds the corner, weapon raised. Your girlfriend doesn't hesitate - she extends her hand toward a nearby water fountain, and a stream of liquid shoots forward, knocking the weapon from his grasp. "Run!" she commands, already pulling you toward an emergency exit.