“Faster!” I urge, lifting her when she stumbles, carrying half her weight as we race across the concrete.
Six seconds.
She pushes herself harder, even as her legs threaten to give out.
Four seconds.
The blast door is waist-height now.
No time.
No margin.
No choice.
I scoop her fully into my arms.
“Hold on.”
She wraps her arms around my neck — trusting me completely.
I dive.
The steel scrapes my shoulder as we slide beneath it, landing hard on the other side just as the door slams shut behind us with a bone-rattlingBOOM.
Silence.
Then Lena’s breath hitches against my neck.
I ease us both upright, brushing hair out of her face. “You okay?”
She nods — a small, shaky movement that guts me more than anything Roscov said.
“You saved me,” she whispers.
“No,” I say, brushing my thumb over the bruise on her cheek. “You survived. I’m just getting you out.”
Her lips part — like she’s about to say something else — but shouting echoes from the stairwell ahead.
“Pierce! Lena!”
River’s voice. Beckett’s. The others.
Lena’s eyes fill with relief.
I help her stand, keeping her tucked against my side, and lead her toward the team.
But as we reach the stairwell, she pauses and looks back once — at the sealed blast door, at the nightmare she almost didn’t escape.
“Ronan… what if he comes after us?”
I meet her gaze, my voice soft but absolute:
“Then he learns what a mistake it was to touch you.”
Her eyes stay on mine.
Something shifts between us — not relief, not safety… something deeper. A tether pulling tight.
