I don’t look back.
The final room vanishes behind me as I shove through the door, boots slamming into the corridor with a force that rattles my teeth. Pain blooms in my ribs where the blast bruised something deep and stubborn, but I welcome it. Pain is honest. Pain tells me I’m still moving.
The hotel is coming apart around itself.
Plaster drifts down like dirty snow. Somewhere below, metal groans and gives way with a long, exhausted shriek. Emergency lights flicker, then steady, then flicker again, bathing the hall in a sickly red pulse that matches the thud of my heart.
I sprint.
Each breath burns. My lungs feel raw, scraped down to nerve endings. I taste dust and copper and the faint bitter edge of adrenaline that won’t let me slow even when my body begs. My shoulder screams when I
