The Confrontation
The dust was still settling around him. Cole could feel it in his throat, a fine grit that clung to his tongue and scraped against his lungs with each breath. His hands were pressed flat against the cold concrete floor, the surface rough and pitted beneath his palms. Small bits of debris—plaster, maybe, or fragments of the ceiling—had embedded themselves in his skin, leaving tiny red impressions that would later become bruises. He pushed himself up slowly, his arms trembling with the effort. His shoulder ached, the old wound from the plane crash sending a dull, persistent throb down his arm. He could feel the fabric of his shirt clinging to his back, damp with sweat and something else—blood, maybe, though he couldn't tell if it was his own. The room was dark, the only light coming from a
- Writer
