The door slammed shut behind them, muffling most of the hair-raising shriek of the whistles. Only the ragged gasps of the few survivors echoed in the stairwell. Nino slid down the wall to the floor, his small frame heaving with violent breaths.
Liam paused at the bottom of the steps and pricked up his ears. Beyond the dull wail of the alarm from behind the door, there were no footsteps—yet—and none of the Sculptor’s terrifying movements. But the silence was unsettling, thick and stagnant like the air before a storm.
He glanced down at Nino. The boy huddled in on himself, his face buried in his knees, shaking silently. Risking his life to unlock that door had seemingly drained the last of his courage.
“Why did you help us?” Liam’s voice cut cold and sharp through the narrow space.
Nino
