Cobra.
I twist, searching over heads, around bodies, through the shifting mess of people trying to get away from the fight and somehow making it impossible for anyone else to move. My heart climbs higher with every second I don’t see him.
Stay close.
His voice cuts through my head, low and certain.
Stay within arm’s reach.
I was.
I was right there. Then everything moved. Everything broke. I take a breath and force myself not to panic. Panicking won’t help. I know that. I’ve spent the last couple days learning too many things I never wanted to know, and one of them is that fear can either make you sharper or make you useless. Right now, I need sharp. I try to look for Tessa again.
Nothing.
Mia.
Nothing.
Eli?
I catch a glimpse of him for half a second near the left side of the dance floor, pushing through bodies, face tight with focus. Then he disappears behind a wave of people moving toward the exit.
Cobra is nowhere.
My chest tightens. I’m too small in this crowd. Too easy to lose. Too easy to shove. Someone bumps me again, hard enough that pain sparks down my arm.
“Watch it,” I snap, but the guy doesn’t even hear me. I glance toward the front entrance. It’s only a few feet away. Not far.
Open.
Cold air slips through every time the door swings wide, sharp and clean compared to the stale heat inside.
I can go outside. Get space. Text him. That’s logical. Not stupid. I’m not leaving. I’m not wandering. I’m not disappearing. I’m getting out of the crowd before I get knocked down or trampled, and I’m telling him exactly where I am. It makes sense. I push toward the door, shoulders tucked in, one hand raised slightly to protect my face as people move around me. The moment I step through, the cold hits hard enough to make me gasp.
The noise dulls behind me. Not gone. Muffled. Contained behind brick and glass and a door that keeps swinging open and shut as people spill out in bursts.
I stumble a few steps away from the entrance, dragging air into my lungs like I forgot how to breathe inside. My hands shake as I pull out my phone. The screen lights up too bright in the dark. Cobra’s name is right there. My thumb hits the message thread, and I start typing with fingers that don’t want to cooperate.
I went out
A hand clamps over my mouth.
Everything stops. Not slows. Stops.
A hard body presses into my back, and something cold touches the side of my throat. Sharp. Knife. The realization doesn’t come with a scream. It comes with silence. Deep. Frozen. The hand over my mouth tightens, rough palm crushing my lips against my teeth. I taste skin. Sweat. Something metallic where my lip catches. “Don’t fight,” a voice whispers near my ear.
My stomach drops through the pavement.
He told me.
He told me, and I didn’t listen.
The thought isn’t frantic. It isn’t a spiral. It’s cold. Clean. Terrible.
I should’ve listened.
The man starts walking backward, dragging me with him. His arm is locked across my chest now, the knife still tucked against my throat, close enough that every swallow feels dangerous. My phone slips in my hand, but I don’t drop it. I can’t text. Can’t call. Can’t do anything except move because the blade tells me to.
