He didn’t come for me immediately.
Instead, he spun back toward the door, reaching for the handle.
I moved before he could take another step.
Pain screamed through my knees the second I pushed off the couch—but I ignored it.
I Ignored everything.
There was no room for hesitation. No space for fear.
Just instinct.
If he gets that door open... I’m done for. The soldiers will pin me down, and victory will be his.
I surged forward, closing the distance between us in two quick steps, my body moving on pure muscle memory.
Before he could react—before he could even register what I was doing—I drove my knee up hard.
Straight into his groin.
Every ounce of strength I had left went into that single strike.
The impact was brutal.
I felt it.
Felt the give.
Felt the sickening compression as bone met soft tissue.
A strangled sound tore from his throat—half grunt, half choked wheeze—as his entire body folded in on itself.
His eyes rolled back, face draining of color instantly as the pain hit.
For a second, he just stood there—frozen in shock.
Then he collapsed.
Completely.
Like a puppet with its strings cut.
He hit the concrete hard, limbs slack, breath coming in shallow, broken gasps.
I didn’t wait. Didn’t think.
I grabbed him.
My hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt as I dragged him—grunting with effort—across the floor.
His body was heavy, dead weight scraping against the concrete with a rough, grating sound that echoed in the empty room.
Every pull sent fresh agony through my arms, my ribs, my knees.
But I didn’t stop.
I hauled him as far from the door as I could manage—into the far corner, where the shadows pooled thickest.
