“There you are,” he said. “You really should’ve stayed put.”
My heart slammed against my ribs, but my spine stayed straight.
I lifted my chin.
“You’re bleeding,” I said calmly, nodding at the man with the split lip.
His smile faltered.
That was all I needed.
I lunged—not toward them, but sideways—slamming my shoulder into a rusted pipe. It groaned, then snapped loose with a shriek of metal.
Water burst from the ceiling like a cannon.
The lights flickered.
The tunnel flooded in seconds, icy water rushing past our ankles, then calves. One man shouted as he lost his footing.
I didn’t wait to see more.
I dove.
Under the spray. Beneath the chaos.
My fingers closed around something cold and solid on the ground—a dropped flashlight. I hurled it hard down the tunnel past them.
It shattered.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Someone fired blindly.
I pressed myself flat against the wall, heart hammering so hard I thought it would give me away.
Footsteps slipped. Someone cursed. Panic crept into their voices now—high, frantic.
They weren’t in control anymore.
Neither was I.
But I had one thing they didn’t.
I wasn’t afraid of the dark.
I slid along the wall, moving inch by inch, breathing through my nose, forcing my pulse to slow.
Then—through the chaos—I heard it.
A different sound.
Not boots.
Not shouting.
A sharp, deliberate crack.
Followed by silence.
