The darkness rushed in without warning, a heavy, suffocating blanket that snuffed out the neon nightlife and the world around me. I felt my knees buckle, my body turning into a useless weight as I collapsed onto the gritty, oil-stained asphalt. Consciousness flickered like a dying candle, and for a moment, I was adrift in a void of silence.
When my senses finally clawed their way back to the surface, they were led by a searing, white-hot agony radiating from my left arm. It felt as though a jagged blade had torn through the muscle and bone, slicing open a vein. I could feel the rhythmic pulse of hot liquid—my own lifeblood—soaking into my shirt and spilling onto the ground. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Jennifer Arnoyd screaming. It was a raw, primal sound of terror, but it was
