I close the distance in two steps, my hand snapping up to grab the first guard by the collar and yank him backward into me as my forearm drives across his throat. His body jerks in immediate reaction, hands coming up too late to stop the pressure, and I hold it just long enough for the fight to drain out of him before lowering him to the ground instead of letting him drop.
The second guard turns, his eyes widening as he registers the movement.
“Hey—”
I’m already on him.
My elbow connects with his jaw, snapping his head sideways, and I follow through by driving him back into the wall, the impact knocking the rest of the warning out of him before it can carry.
“Don’t,” I say, pressing the weapon into his side as I pin him in place. “You make a sound, and I don’t miss.”
He freezes immediately, breath catching in his throat as he nods once.
“Good,” I mutter, reaching past him to trigger the door release.
The panel flashes, then slides open.
I shove him inside ahead of me.
Dadams stands in the center of the room, posture straight but not relaxed, his eyes snapping to me the second the door opens. The lighting in here is brighter, colder, reflecting off the smooth surfaces in a way that makes everything feel too exposed.
“Well,” he says slowly, his gaze flicking from me to the unconscious guard and back again. “That’s not how I expected this to go.”
“Yeah,” I reply, kicking the door shut behind me. “You’re adaptable. Let’s see how far that goes.”
He doesn’t move.
“Am I going somewhere?” he asks, his tone controlled but not calm.
I raise the weapon slightly, closing the distance between us without rushing it.
“You are,” I say. “And you’re going to start talking on the way.”
He studies me, his gaze lingering on the blood at my side, the way I’m standing like it doesn’t matter.
“You’re in worse shape than your entrance suggests,” he says.
“You’re in worse trouble than you think,” I shoot back, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the door.
He resists for half a second, testing the hold.
I tighten my grip.
He stops.
“Good choice,” I mutter, dragging him into the corridor.
I keep him close, positioning him just enough ahead of me to break line of sight without losing control, and we move fast, cutting through the corridor with a rhythm that matches the patrol gaps I tracked on the way in.
“You’re making a mistake,” he says quietly as we move.
“No,” I reply. “I’m correcting one.”
“You think pulling me into this changes anything?” he asks.
“I think you’re going to explain everything,” I counter, steering him into a shadowed section where the corridor dips slightly out of the main flow.
I shove him back against the wall, the impact controlled but firm enough to pin him there.
