Victor's lungs were on fire.
He'd been running for—he didn't know how long.
Minutes? Hours? Time had lost all meaning the moment he'd burst through that front door and heard Fox's voice shouting behind him.
The Milan streets blurred past.
Cars honked as he darted between them.
People stared, some stepping back from the wild-eyed young man in filthy clothes, barefoot and bleeding.
But no one stopped him. No one helped.
Victor's vision swam.
His legs were giving out, muscles screaming from days of confinement and now this desperate sprint.
He stumbled, caught himself on a wall, kept moving.
An alley opened to his right—narrow, dark, lined with dumpsters and discarded crates.
Victor dove into it without thinking, pressing himself behind a rusted container.
His whole body shook, breath coming in ragged gasps that he tried desperately to muffle.
Footsteps on the street.
Multiple sets, moving fast.
