We all do—cramming into the back seat in a tangle of limbs and weapons and the particular smell of sweat and blood and fear. The door slams. The engine roars. And we're moving—peeling away from the warehouse, from the sirens, from everything that just happened.
My head spins.
Too much.
Too fast.
Can't process.
The car weaves through streets I don't recognize, taking turns that seem random but probably aren't, putting distance between us and the chaos we left behind.
One-two-three-four.
My toe taps against the floor.
One-two-three-four.
Breathe.
You're alive.
Somehow, impossibly, you're alive.
The vehicle slows.
Turns onto a dirt road I can barely see through the tinted windows.
Woods.
We're in woods now.
Where are we going?
Another car waits ahead—bigger, darker, engine already running.
We stop.
Doors open.
"Switch vehicles," Kai orders. "Now."
We pile out of the first car and into the second with the kind of efficiency that suggests this was planned.
All of it was planned.
Every step.
Every betrayal.
Every rescue.
The new vehicle is spacious—more of a luxury SUV than a car, with plush seats and tinted windows and the particular smell of expensive leather.
We settle.
Catch our breath.
And Blaze?—
