“Shit,” I bite out, barely managing to keep her upright as my legs scream to fold.
“You’re bleeding again,” she gasps, reaching for me.
“I’ll live,” I growl, but my voice is hoarse, thinner than I want. “Keep moving.”
She doesn’t argue. Just runs.
The tunnel opens into a broader artery beneath the city, where the dim flicker of dying fluorescent fixtures sputters overhead, casting sickly pools of light that barely touch the filth below. A rusted barrel burning at the far end throws orange shadows against damp, mildew-stained concrete. The acrid stink of smoke mingles with the ammonia burn of piss, the sour reek of sweat, rot, and days-old vomit. The air is thick—wet with decay and city waste, a place where sunlight has neverreached.
Boxes, blankets, tarps strung up with scavenged wire—makeshift shelters for the forgotten. Homeless people line the edges like ghosts in tattered layers, but this is no passive gauntlet—we’re running a razor’s edge through it.
One man stirs, eyes bleary and bloodshot, face streaked with soot. Another, bundled beneath a shredded sleeping bag, rocks in place, muttering nonsense prayers to the flickering ceiling. And then a third erupts from a nest of garbage bags, red-rimmed eyes sharp with fury, a broken bottle clenched in his hand like a weapon.
“Fuck you doing down here?”
“Move,” I growl.
He doesn’t. Not right away.
I shoulder into him hard, not slowing, not stopping. My shoulder screams, more blood spills, dripping down my arm, but I grit my teeth and shove him aside. He stumbles, crashes into a wall of milk crates, cursing. Another man lunges out of a tent—filthy beard, wired eyes, arms outstretched like he’s going to stop us. I twist at the last second, drive my elbow into his gut. He folds. Wheezing.
Eliza gasps. Someone grabs at her arm. I whirl—pistol raised, safety off. The shadow disappears back into the dark, muttering.
“Keep going.” I shove her ahead.
Around us, the camp rouses like a kicked hornet’s nest. People shout and curse, darting from makeshift shelters and tarp-covered beds. A tent collapses beneath someone’s weight, spilling its contents and tangled limbs into the muck. A bottle shatters underfoot, glinting fire-orange in the flickering glow of the barrel nearby.
Screams rip through the smoke-choked air. We’ve told every goddamn gunman chasing us exactly where to go. We’ve brought them down on our heels.
Behind us, booted feet hammer the concrete. They’recoming. Not just one or two now. More. Gaining ground with every breath. Every limp I can’t hide.
The tunnel narrows again ahead, sloping into another turn. Slick. Cramped. We plunge forward, the corridor pressing in, breath hot in our chests. My shoulder pulses like it’s being torn apart from the inside out.
And still, I run. Eliza stumbles, her breathing ragged, sharp. Fear vibrates off her skin like static.
Behind us, the sound we’ve been running from grows louder—booted feet stomping over the ground, the distant crash of metal, something kicked or knocked aside.
Close. Too close.
A shadow separates from the wall. Another druggie. Another broken life.
“Move,” I growl, my voice flint and fire.
But he doesn’t.
He’s in the way. And we don’t have time.
I twist, shoving Eliza behind me, and slam my shoulder into him, the wrong one. Agony rips through me like shrapnel. Wet heat spreads down my arm. The bandage is gone, torn loose. I bite down on the yell trying to claw its way up my throat.
But the bastard stumbles. That’s all I need.
I push Eliza past him, my hand gripping hers tight. Her breath comes fast, shallow—the high, whimpering edge of terror slipping through her clenched teeth.
Behind us, chaos erupts. The homeless camp boils to life with shouts, questions, curses—and footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Drawing closer.
They’re closing in fast.
Behind us, the sound we’ve been outrunning gets louder. Boots. At least three. Maybe more. The shuffle of movement. The clang of something metal knockedover.
