AMANDA
I need to get out of here.
I need to move. Now.
But my body—f**k, my body burns. It’s too hot, too tight, like my skin is no longer mine, like something else is trying to crawl out of me, tear its way free.
I suck in a breath, but it hurts. My lungs are too full, my chest too tight, like I’m breathing in fire, like the air itself is turning into something lethal.
I stagger forward—or try to. The ground isn’t steady anymore. It’s shaking, breaking, splitting beneath my feet.
I don’t care.
I have to move. I have to get out.
I look down at my hands, expecting to see them—but they are glowing.
No. Not glowing. Burning.
Light pulses beneath my skin, hot and molten, crawling up my arms like veins of liquid fire. I feel every inch of it, sinking into my bones, wrapping around my
