I chuckle; the irony isn’t lost on me.
The storm darkens our landscape further, making the environment even more challenging to navigate. I use this, sticking to the dimmest shadows, moving with deliberate slowness when crossing exposed areas. My years of practicing silent motion serve me well now.
A small square between buildings rises before me just as movement catches my eye—an Enforcer positioned behind a low wall, gun trained on the approach I’m taking. I duck back just as they fire, the shot impacting the stone where my head had been seconds before.
Stars, that would have hurt.
My heart spikes, adrenaline flooding my system despite knowing the weapons aren’t lethal. The danger feels real enough to trigger a fear response.
My back presses against a wall as I pant, begging my heart to slow so I can think. Why does everyone in this damn place aim for my head? Do they think I can’t die any other way? I strain to detect footsteps over the rain, listening for signs the Enforcer is approaching, but the storm still drowns out most sounds. My power indicates the enemy is close, determined to take me down, but it can’t pinpoint where.
Closing my eyes, I focus on my other senses. When visual information is limited, the body compensates. I’ve spent countless nights moving through pitch darkness, training my body to navigate without sight.
No movement. No change in the rhythm of the rain. The Enforcer must be holding position, waiting for me to make another attempt.
I hold my weapon with a tight grip, summoning courage. Without giving myself time to reconsider, I spin around the corner, gun raised, finger nestling the trigger?—
But there’s no one there.
Confused, I step forward,scanning for movement. Nothing. Where did they?—
Something slams into my back with crushing force, driving me face-first into the wet ground. Pain explodes through my body as I impact the street, reigniting sore spots that my salve dulled, mud and grit grinding into my face where it meets the edge of my mask. Fucking hell, can everyone stop doing this?
I taste blood—my teeth cut the inner ridge of my lip. The weight on my back is immense, pinning me successfully.
Rough hands grab the back of my mask, shoving my head harder into the ground. I can’t breathe, can’t move, panic rising as I struggle for oxygen.
With a desperate surge of strength born from the pure need to survive, I buck my hips and twist violently to the side, creating just enough space to roll. The maneuver catches my attacker by surprise, and I manage to flip onto my back, immediately regretting it as his hips settle on my abdomen, pressing against my already full bladder.
It fuckinghurts. And I swear a few drops escape before I stop them.
The Enforcer above me is massive—at least twice my size, with shoulders blocking what little light remains in the stormy sky. His body language radiates confidence. He knows he has me.
He reaches for his gun, which must have fallen during our struggle. I seize the moment, driving my knee upward with all the force I can muster. It catches him in the back, throwing him slightly off balance—not enough to dislodge him, but enough to buy me a second.
I grab for his uniform, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wet fabric, trying to find the orange flag I know must be attached somewhere. He blocks my attempt with a heavy forearm acrossmy chest, pressing until breathing becomes painful again.
My vision swims, lungs burning as dark spots encroach at the edges. I’ve never fought like this before—never been in a position where someone was actively trying to hurt me outside practice.
His weight shifts to grab the fallen weapon, and I exploit the momentary redistribution. Twisting my body with every ounce of strength I possess, I manage to get one arm free and reach around his torso, fingers closing on fabric that feels different from the uniform?—
The flag.
I yank with everything I have, tearing it free just as he brings his weapon to bear on my head. He freezes, then curses loudly, the sound distorted by his mask and the pounding rain.
“Eliminated,” I wheeze, still struggling for breath.
The Enforcer shoves off me with unnecessary force, standing to his full height and looking down at me with what I can only imagine is contempt. “Lucky shot,” he mutters, then extends a hand for me.
I ignore it.
Instead, I roll to my side and push to my feet like the independent woman I am. Muscles scream in protest—each one convulsing, my face throbbing where it was ground into the street. But I won’t show weakness. Not to him—or any of them.
I’m brushing mud from my uniform when he speaks again. “You didn’t cut your hair before coming here?”
My body freezes, ice shooting through my veins. My hand shifts to my head on instinct and I feel nothing but horror that my hair partially escaped its tight bun, now hanging in wet strands around the edge of my mask.
It’s okay. This isn’t damning…I just need to remain calm.
