She doesn’t question it. Just nods and turns with me.
This time, we don’t crawl.
We run.
The smoke is thick, heavy, clinging to every inch of skin. I feel it inside me now, deep and raw, like it’s etched into my lungs. But I don’t stop. We sprint to the end of the hallway, where the small window above the radiator waits.
I unlatch it with shaking fingers and shove it open. Smoke rushes out like a breath being released. We both lean into the opening, gulping at the fresh air. I push Neve’s shoulders. “Go,” I rasp. “Out.”
She clambers through, her foot slipping once on the ledge, and I grab her arm and steady her before she can fall. Then she’s out, crouched on the metal grating of the fire escape.
A loud crash erupts behind us as a bookshelf—engulfed in flames—topples to the floor, sending a wave of heat rolling through the apartment and out the window. Thick, black smoke pours out like a living thing, curling around us, choking the sky. I cough and grip the fire escape railing with trembling fingers, trying to focus.
There’s a man already on the fire escape.
I don’t know where he came from—he’s just there, reaching for Neve, steadying her as she climbs through the brokenwindow. “You’re safe now! It’s okay, I’ve got you!” he shouts, voice low and firm, cutting through the chaos like an anchor.
The smoke swirls thick around his face, masking every feature in shifting gray. I can’t make him out—just the shape of him, tall and broad-shouldered, moving with a strange calm as he turns to help me next. His black t-shirt clings to his chest, damp with sweat, and as he reaches for me, I catch a glimpse of something across his chest—a faded motorcycle logo and, just above it, what looks like the wordsCross & Sons.
But my eyes are too watery to be sure—burning from the smoke, stinging so bad everything blurs.
“Come on,” he says. “The ladder’s down. I’ll go first and guide you.”
He climbs ahead, tests each step, then turns and offers his hand as we descend. The metal creaks under our combined weight, hot and groaning, but we keep going.
My feet hit the bottom rung just as the building releases another deep, groaning wail from within—like it’s mourning itself.
We hit the pavement and stumble back, just as a blast of heat ripples out the window above us.
Neve grabs my hand. I cough, bent over, trying to catch my breath. Neve tugs my arm, and we take off running, coughing, hacking, tripping our way around to the front of the building.
That’s when I see it. The first floor,my bakery, isengulfed in fire. Flames pour from the windows, black smoke pumping into the sky like something unholy. The sign is barely visible behind the wall of fire, the glass shattered, the heart of everything I builtgone.
I fall to my knees.
The sob breaks out of me before I can stop it. My stomach clenches, and I vomit onto the sidewalk. It burns coming up, acid and smoke and wine.
And then I cry.
Neve grabs me by the arms and pulls me up. “Come on,” she chokes out, voice ragged. “We have to move.”
She drags me across the street, our bodies shaking, skin streaked with soot and tears. I stumble, still coughing, and then?—
Boom.
The explosion hits like a punch to the face. A massive fireball erupts from the top floor—ourfloor—lighting up the night like it’s noon. The blast of heat slams into us, windows shatter, the ground trembles underfoot. I throw my arms up over my head as sparks of glass rain down across the street.
“Oh my God,” Neve whispers.
That… was our apartment.
We were just up there.
Sirens scream closer now, echoing off the buildings like a warning, but it’s all background noise because suddenly I hear it—my name, being shouted through the chaos.
“Marlowe!”
I turn, disoriented, vision swimming.
