Run. That was it. That was the whole plan, the entire grand strategy my brain could conjure after witnessing the universe throw its newest, shiniest middle finger into our already overcrowded tragedy.
There were no clever angles, no cunning stratagems, no heroic last stands—just one shrieking word pounding through my skull like a war drum with a drinking problem: run.
And so, like a man who had belatedly realized he'd left the oven on during the apocalypse, I bolted.
The plaza, of course, did not bolt with me.
Instead it froze. Every last idiot, zealot, and noble above seemed caught in the tidal wave of dread pouring off the newcomer, their bodies rooted in place, mouths half open in disbelief, like theater-goers watching the curtain rise on a play they suddenly regretted buying tickets for.
Even the stitched man, that howling monstrosity, began to thrash violently, pulling himself further away from the Lady of Fang's invisible leash, his screams raw and desperate.
