I take off running, not bothering to check if Edison’s behind me. When you’re hunted, looking back is a distraction guaranteed to get you killed. My feet pound the ground with reckless speed, gravel scattering beneath each strike. The night air claws at my lungs, sharp and metallic, but I’m thankful for the swiftness with which my body moves. I try to remember the roads Edison took, replaying turns in my mind, never once slowing my steps.
My pulse turns erratic when shadows blur past me—ten figures moving in ultra‑speed, their outlines slicing through the dark like blades. A scream slips past my throat, strangled before it can fully form. My heart ricochets against my rib cage, then skitters to a deafening halt. Hyperventilation becomes my new form of breathing, shallow and frantic.
