River’s voice roars through comms.
“Ronan, the blast doors are closing in sixty seconds! MOVE!”
I grab Lena’s hand — cold, trembling, but strong — and pull her into a run.
She stumbles once. I catch her.
She gasps in pain. I adjust my grip.
She doesn’t let go.
Neither do I.
Gunfire erupts behind us as Roscov’s men pour out of Chamber Nine. I fire back blindly, keeping their heads down as we sprint toward the extraction stairwell.
“Ronan,” Lena pants, “don’t let go.”
“Never,” I rasp. “Not again.”
The blast door warning sirens crescendo.
Forty seconds.
Thirty.
Twenty.
The stairwell looms ahead.
Hope slams into me — sharp, bright, dangerous.
I tighten my grip on her hand and pull her faster.
We are going to make it.
We are—
A burst of automatic fire rips across the hall, forcing us to dive behind the wall.
Lena cries out as her knee slams the floor.
I shield her with my body as bullets tear holes in the concrete inches from us.
The gunfire stops.
A single set of footsteps echoes toward us.
Measured. Calm.
Smiling.
Roscov.
His voice drips down the hall.
“You really thought she would be that easy to take?”
Lena buries her face against my shoulder, trembling.
