You shoulder the mop cart aside, punch through the cracked safety glass, and slam the glowing lockdown lever. Klaxons bellow. Steel shutters hammer down over doors, duct dampers iris shut with a teeth-rattling thud, and the ceiling grills cinch tight. Two derplings wedged in a vent squeak, bulge, and pop back onto the bench like rubbery pears, blinking in offended stereo. The violet vapor stops crawling toward the ceiling and hangs in a glittering haze; the lab settles into a compressed, sterile hush.

No more escapes. Cut off from the station, the swarm ripples across tabletops and cable looms, pressing at sink drains and licking at the sugary spill. Their skins flash with the amber strobe as one shivers and buds into two, both immediately prying at an outlet plate. The maintenance chute’s status light clicks from green to lockdown amber, but a fat manual override handle waits inches above the floor. Your cart rattles under your hand—biohazard foam sprayer, industrial vac, absorbent pads—tools enough to turn panic into procedure if you move now.