Atlas trailed close behind, watching Milo charge up the stairs two, three steps at a time, his frantic footsteps pounding like war drums. He reached the door at the top and seized the handle, twisting, yanking, rattling it desperately. Locked.
A curse tore from his throat, sweat dripping down his face. Without a moment's hesitation, he threw his thin body against it. Once. Twice. Each time he was thrown back, his frail frame hitting the floor with a painful thud.
On the third slam. CRACK! The wood splintered, and Milo stumbled through, crashing to the ground in a heap.
Atlas followed him in, and froze.
At the far end of the room, Milo's wife was struggling helplessly, her wrists bound, her muffled cries stifled by a cloth stuffed between her lips. A man stood behind her, one hand cruelly gripping her face, pinning her in place.
