DARIAN
The night air is sharper outside the compound.
Cold, damp, biting. Each breath claws at my lungs, each step jarring pain through my ribs. My shirt is damp with blood, some dried, some fresh. The bandages are a memory. My back stings like fire’s been stitched into my skin.
But I keep moving. No stopping, not yet.
The last guard went down easier than expected, too easy. A punch, a twist, a door left ajar like someone forgot how keys work. No alarms or shouts. Just a clean slip out of the dark.
Suspicious. Sloppy.
Too perfect.
But I didn’t ask questions then. I took the shot. I ran.
My car is parked miles back, deep in the lot behind the lower barracks. No way I’m touching it. The second I power it on, they’ll have a tracer pinged. Every royal vehicle has one. That’s the f
