A sound answered—a soft groan. Faint. Above.
He scanned upward with the light. Two spirals up a hand hung, tangled in a twisted sprawl of metal.
He moved, gun ready, one curve closer.
The world shrank to that single sight—her motionless form, her hair matted with dust and streaks of white from the shattered plaster, her arm bent awkwardly at her side.
Blake took the steps three at a time, landing hard beside her. Hands shaking, he reached for her wrist.
Pulse. Faint.
Relief hit like a punch.
“Viv. Come on.” His voice broke, rougher than he wanted. “Talk to me.”
She stirred, a low moan escaping her. Her eyelashes fluttered, slow, disoriented.
“Blake?” Her voice was paper-thin.
“Yeah. I got you.”
He checked her pupils, then scanned for injuries. A bruise already bloomed on her cheek, dark against her pale skin. A cut at her temple. He brushed a thumb over her hand—it was trembling.
“What happened?” he asked.
Her lips parted, the words dragging out. “Someone… in here. Pushed me. Boots. Big. Gray. There—was something… upstairs.”
She drew in a breath, thin and shaky, and pushed to sit up. Blake’s hand hovered at her back, steadying her without touching—as if he were fighting the urge.
She pushed to rise, but her arm gave out, and she slumped against the wall.
He caught her before she slid further, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder. “Easy. You’re hurt.”
Vivian shook her head weakly. “No. Go. I dropped it… a bullet casing. I had it.”
He hesitated only a heartbeat before lowering her back against the wall. Her head lolled to the side, exhaustion pulling at her features.
He holstered his gun and stripped off his jacket, tucking it under her head. “I’ll get you help then come back.” He slid his arm beneath her, but she brushed his wrist, then squeezed it.
“No.” She swallowed hard as if it were painful, and he worried about internal bruising or damage. “Get the evidence. Go.”
He hesitated. Really hesitated. He’d rather stay with her than chase the lead—and that truth scared him.
Blake stood knowing she was right and he needed to find that bullet casing. The beam of his flashlight cut through the haze of dust that still swirled down the stairwell. He swept the light at the bottom, but nothing reflected, so he took the stairs two at a time, hurrying so he could get back to her quick.
At the top landing, he scanned the floor. The cracked concrete was scorched in one place, blackened around a small circle drawn in what looked like red grease pencil. But nothing else. No shell casing. No evidence bag.
Just empty space.
Blake crouched, sweeping the light across the floor. A smear of dust trailed toward the far wall—a drag mark, faint but deliberate. Someone had been here. Someone had taken whatever Vivian found.
He stood, scanned the floor one last time, then turned and bounded back down the stairs.
Vivian still sat slumped against the wall, her eyes half-open, the edges of pain and adrenaline warring in her face.
His relief hit sharp, unguarded—just for a heartbeat. Enough for her to see the depth of it.
“Find it?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
