With my silent approval, Dima dashed forward, abandoning any attempts at stealth. Somewhere down the corridor, shouts and curses erupted, confirming that we’d already been spotted.

As we turned a corner around the infirmary wing, gunshots rang out behind us, scattering stone chips across the asphalt. That was close!

The parking lot was nearby—our one stroke of luck—and within seconds, Dima had broken into a car. He had to smash the window, so it wasn’t going to keep us warm, but that was the least of our problems.

Placing his finger on the ignition, Dima signaled it was my turn. Taking control, I filled the lock with smoke, analyzing the key’s design. With the information in hand, I reshaped the tip of one of my blades to fit the keyhole.

Dima took over again and began fiddling with the vehicle, performing what seemed to be some intricate technical wizardry. Intricate to me, at least—he didn’t appear to struggle at all.

"Let’s go!" he shouted, nervously wiping sweat from his brow as the car roared to life.

At the gates, resistance awaited us. Although calling them “gates” was a stretch—they were five thick metal posts that rose from the ground. A clever design: they didn’t hinder foot traffic but made vehicle escape nearly impossible.

The control mechanism was clearly housed in the nearby booth, from which two guards emerged, as usual working in pairs. This time, they carried pistols instead of batons. They hesitated to shoot, however, shouting warnings instead.

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"Stop right there!" bellowed the red-haired guard, amplifying his voice with magic. "I said stop!"

"Fine, I’ll try," I smirked, slipping into my ghostly form and possessing his partner.

Taking aim at the shouting brute, I pulled the trigger, only to discover that the bullets were rubber. That much was clear when he didn’t die but screamed as if mortally wounded. It took two more shots before he passed out.

Now, how to lower the posts? Unfortunately, possession doesn’t grant access to the host’s memories—this wasn’t a contract, after all. I had to blindly press buttons on the console until the posts began to retract.

Just as I was about to return to my body, another complication arose. Twenty more guards were rushing toward us from the nearest checkpoint. Great.

Luckily, they weren’t expecting me to start shooting, so I managed to hold them off for a while. The possessed guard was finally taken down by a well-placed shot to the groin—poor guy wasn’t going to enjoy waking up.

Still, the delay was enough. The posts disappeared into the ground, and Dima floored the gas pedal, propelling us off the infirmary grounds at full speed. Before leaving, I took control of the red-haired guard, quickly raising the posts again to block pursuit. Some overeager guards had already scrambled into nearby vehicles.

Of course, our troubles didn’t end there. As incompetent as Olouvert’s men were, even they knew we didn’t have many options. The infirmary was clearly located far from the city, with only one road leading out. Heading into the fields was suicide, especially in winter during a snowstorm.

Within five minutes, headlights appeared behind us. Two minutes later, gunfire erupted, and this time the bullets weren’t rubber. One of the shots shattered the rear window. Things were getting dangerous.

I had no choice but to leave my body again, stretching my range to its limit to possess one of the pursuing drivers. Even with the distance, I managed to cause enough chaos to spark a collision, taking several cars out of the chase.

The resulting traffic jam bought us some time, but I was running on fumes. My energy reserves were depleted, and even my necrotic reserves couldn’t keep up due to the slowed processing caused by my injury.

Desperation forced us to veer off the road into a nearby field, hoping that our roaring, rugged vehicle—a “Niva,” as Dima called it—would hold up. While not built for speed, it excelled in off-road performance, as Dima had briefly explained while crunching gears and cursing under his breath.