While I waited for my foot to heal, I formulated an escape plan. I had to ensure I was in the best physical state possible, as in order to escape from a spy-filled compound, I would need my full strength and abilities. That was a little bit hard to do after nearly four months underground with nothing to do but walk, sleep and eat, but I resolved to put particular effort into my foot’s recovery and to returning to my physical strength. I didn’t want to make it suspicious, however. I was already making casual inquiries into the suspended ceiling system of my hospital room, and I wanted neither the foot specialist or the security I knew were watching my cameras to raise the alarm. I instead asked the podiatrist for new and varied exercises to do, citing my insane boredom. This way, if I randomly started doing push-ups or sprinting through the long, empty hallways of the underground hospital, it wouldn’t arouse any concern. After all, I was simply trying to improve my foot, right? I made every effort to appear as I had in the first few months of my stay: curious, just as a spy should be, but never overtly interested in the goings on beyond my four walls. I had learned to read body language as a spy, and I could see the podiatrist wasn’t concerned about my behaviour. The security behind the cameras was a different story. I couldn’t see them, I didn’t know who they were, and I didn’t know what they knew. Knowing the organisation I worked for, the security were probably watching the cameras, replaying bits to each other and picking apart by every eye movement. Every time my eyes flicked up to that commercial plastering job on the ceiling of the room, I envisaged half a dozen junior spies analysing my eye movements, using AI to track my facial expressions, and laughing about how obvious I was. I was sure I was being discreet, but after nearly four months only seeing the same three people on rotation, I was also sure my skills of deception were probably getting rusty.