They come in hard.
The warehouse explodes with motion and sound as police flood the space, boots pounding against concrete, voices barking commands that overlap and collide. Lights cut through the dust and smoke, harsh white beams sweeping the room, catching on broken glass and blood and wreckage. Guns are raised, then lowered, then raised again as they take in the scene.
I do not move.
I am still on my knees.
Hands grip my shoulders from behind, firm but careful, like they are not sure if I am going to fall apart or fight. A voice speaks close to my ear, sharp and controlled, telling me not to move, telling me they have it, telling me it is over.
Over.
The word does not land right away.
Across the room, Elena is still standing. Barely. She is pressed against the wall where she scra
