A truth sharpened to steel.
The footsteps close in.
From the corridor.From the dark.From everywhere.
The warehouse exhales.
Hungry.
And we are standing in its mouth together.
21
Santino
Surrounded, Not Afraid
Footsteps.Too many.
They roll through the warehouse like distant thunder, hammering closer, stacking on top of each other until the air itself feels like it’s counting down.
Pia’s breath catches against my chest.
Mine doesn’t.
I move before fear can get dressed.
I step fully in front of her, body to body, putting myself between her and the dark mouth of the corridor where the boots are coming from. Her fingers snag the back of my shirt—small, shaking, furious—and I spread my stance, heels planted, shoulders loose.
My heart doesn’t race.
It slows.
Everything sharpens.
The overhead light flickers in a sick rhythm.Concrete grit scours my boots.Gunpowder and old oil rot the air.Her blood ghosts my throat.
Each footfall maps itself inside my skull—three heavy, two lighter, one dragging.
Someone’s injured.
Good.
This isn’t fear.
This is instinct.
I tilt my head just enough to see her in the corner of my eye.
Hair matted with sweat and blood. Jaw bruised with the memory of Carlo’s hand. Eyes blown wide with a violence of emotion she refuses to name.
Terror.
Rage.
Defiance.
Her pulse pounds frantically and wildly in her throat—but she stands.
