We don’t talk while we run.
We don’t have to. Words would slow us down, tie us to hesitation. My lungs burn, each breath a sharp knife of fire, and still I move. Adrian’s hand finds the small of my back, a steady weight against the chaos. Concrete dust stings my throat, making it hard to swallow. My ears ring from the cacophony of gunfire, the explosions behind us hammering into my chest like a pulse I can’t escape. Somewhere behind us, metal screams, glass shatters, and I know—without looking—that something has gone wrong for them. Or maybe everything has.
I don’t look back. I can’t.
I trust him.
It hits me harder than any bullet could. Trust isn’t easy for me—not after what’s come before. But with him, in this exact moment, it isn’t even a choice. It’s survival, instinct, certainty.
