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“There you are,” he said. “You really should’ve stayed put.”

My heart slammed against my ribs, but my spine stayed straight.

I lifted my chin.

“You’re bleeding,” I said calmly, nodding at the man with the split lip.

His smile faltered.

That was all I needed.

I lunged—not toward them, but sideways—slamming my shoulder into a rusted pipe. It groaned, then snapped loose with a shriek of metal.

Water burst from the ceiling like a cannon.

The lights flickered.

The tunnel flooded in seconds, icy water rushing past our ankles, then calves. One man shouted as he lost his footing.

I didn’t wait to see more.

I dove.

Under the spray. Beneath the chaos.

My fingers closed around something cold and solid on the ground—a dropped flashlight. I hurled it hard down the tunnel past them.

It shattered.

Darkness swallowed everything.

Someone fired blindly.

I pressed myself flat against the wall, heart hammering so hard I thought it would give me away.

Footsteps slipped. Someone cursed. Panic crept into their voices now—high, frantic.

They weren’t in control anymore.

Neither was I.

But I had one thing they didn’t.

I wasn’t afraid of the dark.

I slid along the wall, moving inch by inch, breathing through my nose, forcing my pulse to slow.

Then—through the chaos—I heard it.

A different sound.

Not boots.

Not shouting.

A sharp, deliberate crack.

Followed by silence.