Mickey doesn’t breathe—not really—until the towering walls of the military facility disappear from his rearview mirror, swallowed by the dark, winding road behind him. His hands clutch the steering wheel, knuckles pale against the leather. Every muscle in his body protests, and each movement sends a warning shot of pain ricocheting through his side where the stitches strain against every bump and twist of the SUV.
“Note to self,” he grits through clenched teeth, “maybe don’t get shot next time.”
He adjusts his position, biting back a groan. The adrenaline that had kept him upright is beginning to fade, replaced by the brutal honesty of pain and exhaustion. He’s running on fumes now—painkillers long worn off, blood dried and sticky beneath his clothes, Ziana’s voice still echoing in his h
