"Three." He turned the latch.
The suite door gave like a jar losing its seal. Hot hallway air rolled in—sweat, copper, perfume. Gavin opened just enough to make a wedge; Madison slid through first, shoulder low, fireplace poker down like a crowbar.
The first body hit wood and bounced its cheek off the edge. The second came from under a broken sconce, legs running before the head decided. Madison clipped the nearest knee with a short, mean jab. Something inside softened; the man folded. Gavin let the runner overshoot and chopped the back of a calf with the saber's flat. Carpet took the rest.
"Left," Gavin said. "Lane."
"Left." Madison settled, mass with orders. The poker found ankles; ankles failed; people dropped; dropped people became walls.
Money bled here. A painting hung by one wire, the other chewed. Sparkle grit turned the floor into pretty ice. Red prints went nowhere. Doors gaped. Somewhere down-corridor a man sobbed in a line without punctuation.
Gavin kept his eyes low. Heads lied; feet closed distance. He called cadence to quiet his hands. "Reset. Hips. Little steps."
A woman crawled with terrible patience, fingers raking for thigh. He slid the dull edge under her kneecap and lifted, stealing structure. She folded and kept patting carpet like it still owed her.
A man burst from a side room with a champagne neck in his fist. Madison took the swing on steel and shoved, changing the line. The man hit the jamb and stayed there, gnawing wood.
They moved. Small wins. The saber rang off shin, then plaster when he reached too far; he corrected and kept it as bar, not sword. Don't play hero. Keep the lane clean.
The STAFF ONLY door waited like a promise. Beige, bureaucratic. Madison hit the crash bar with his forearm. The door opened an inch and clanged into something solid.
"Blocked."
"What?" Gavin didn't look away from the hall. A fallen man tried to climb the wall. Another rocked forward on elbows.
"Cart," Madison said, cheek to metal. "Sideways. Bag on it."
"Shift it."
"On three." He almost laughed. "Everything's on three."
Switch: Gavin rear guard; Madison shoulder to bar. The door groaned. The gap showed stainless at a bad angle, one bent wheel, and a black trash bag slick with sauce and wine. A spoon slid with a wet cluck.
"Again."
Two more inches. A slot you could sell a man through if you didn't care about delivery condition.
A shape lunged from a room they'd passed, mouth open, fingers splayed. Gavin met teeth with the saber's guard, pivoted, and let the body trip over the first man they'd folded. Bodies created problems for bodies.
"Go," Gavin said.
Madison slid through sideways, scraping paint, dragging the poker. The dark beyond felt colder—concrete, not marble. Gavin crabbed backward, blade between him and the hall. A hand found his pocket; he twitched free and stamped it like a grease fire. He and Madison shoved the door onto the cart until it settled. Not locked—burdened.
Silence made rules in the concrete throat. Block walls. Metal treads. Red emergency rectangles too small to see by. Soap, dust, old leak. Sound came back rounded-off.
Gavin put his back to the wall and told his heart to count less. One. Two. Not three.
Madison flexed torn knuckles. "You good?"
"No. Functional."
"Same."
They went down. Hand on rail. Hips quiet. The saber hung low, point down like a cane he didn't want. The first flight offered only their steps and a crushed paper cup playing dead. The second framed a sliver of kitchen—steel, tile, a rack of pans whispering from old motion. Too many surfaces; no good backs; keep moving.
On the third landing, something slicked a tread. Madison's foot shot; his hip kissed the rail; the stair complained. Dust sifted.
"You good?"
"Fine."
Half a flight later a rubber nosing peeled into a black tongue. Madison stepped on it; the tongue folded; his heel sank. The poker rang on steps. Gavin caught rail and bicep; both men swayed, then stilled.
"Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be small." The joke arrived by muscle memory. "You are the least small man I know."
"Don't body-shame me on leg day."
Almost normal—until a voice threaded up from below.
"Help."
They froze. It came again, hoarse but grammatical. "Please."
Not a moan. Language lived here.
Gavin lifted the saber; Madison raised the poker.
"I'm in here. Please." The acoustics made it float—next landing, or the drain, or a duct two floors down.
Open doors is who you are, a voice said. Open doors almost opened your leg, another replied. He didn't like either one.
"We go," Madison said—identity, not question.
"Wait." Gavin touched rail. Beneath the plea, vibration. Shoes. Not dragging—quick, heavy, careless—from above.
He drew the play in his head: threats above; unknown below; them in the funnel. Pick your field.
The whisper hurried. "Don't leave. Please, I can't—" It cut like a thumb on a radio button.
Madison looked up, down, then at Gavin. "Gav."
"Next landing," Gavin said. "Hug the wall."
They went. Red light, more shadow than help. A beige door waited at the landing, no knob, just a bar. Someone tapped it from the far side with careful fingers. The bar ticked against the latch.
"Please." Close now.
Gavin nodded to Madison's chest like a quarterback to the guard he trusted. "You work the door. Keep it narrow. I take the stairs."
"Copy." Madison set his ulna to the bar and braced like a valve. Gavin turned to face up, blade across, feet a step higher for sightlines.
Feet from above acquired names—two sets minimum: one light and fast, one heavy and pounding. They hit the turn and thundered toward them. Metal sang; breath hissed.
"Talk to me," Madison said. "On go?"
"Let half a person in," Gavin said. "Not more. We don't marry whoever's out there."
"My mama taught me that."
The bar rattled under Madison's arm. A voice seeped through the seam, thin from crying. "Please, please—"
"What's your name?" Gavin said, eyes up.
A beat. No answer. [CHECK: identity]
"You hurt?"
"No. There's blood outside but it's—" A swallow. "Not mine."
The first body from above appeared: legs, then torsos, faces still in shadow. The lead took the steps two at a time like a late commuter. The second banged a shoulder, didn't register pain, kept coming.
"On me," Gavin said.
He let the lead close, then did what ankles understand: chop, retreat, chop. The saber's flat interrupted knee and calf; the man folded. The second tried to step over and found friction and gravity on the same team. He sprawled. Fingers combed the stair edge to become grabbing. Gavin stamped the hand. No yelp—only that low, not-language sound he was starting to hate.
The landing door pushed. Madison let it move a hand's width and held it with bone. Something slender squeezed through: an arm, then a shoulder, then hair. A woman in a server's black vest and white shirt torn at the seam. Her eyes were all pupil. She smelled like coffee and fear.
"Half," Madison warned. She obeyed. The woman curled behind him and made herself small. The door tugged; something stupid and heavy pressed back. Madison held the bar and made a noise that mixed effort and prayer.
Gavin met the next arrival with guard and forearm. The guard took teeth; the forearm took momentum. He slid a step to change angle and felt his shoe skate on dust. Don't fall. He levered a shin into stair edge; a clean, ugly pop paid off. The man slid past making a drain noise.
"Two more above," Gavin said. "Maybe friends behind them."
"Below?" Madison asked, sweat pattering the bar. The door rocked with patient idiot pressure.
"Quiet," the woman whispered. "Then feet. I hid. Then I heard you."
Ribs ached. Forearms buzzed. Hate this later. Right now is angles. He set again and listened. The next pair slowed—confidence leaking down flights. They would still come. Funnels don't forgive indecision.
He looked at the red rectangle and said it. "We keep moving down. No war at a choke point we didn't choose."
"On you," Madison said.
"Please don't leave me," the woman said.
"We're not." Quick glance: no blood on her except other people's. [CHECK: confirm no bite] "Can you walk?"
"Yes."
"When I say go, you hold Madison's shirt like it's the last bus. Do not let go. Do not run. Running makes you fall. Falling kills all of us." His voice found two-minute calm.
"I won't run."
A face rose above—older man in a tux, bow tie crooked, lipstick prints that meant nothing now. Eyes unblinking. Mouth working without words. He came methodical. Behind him a barefoot woman slapped each tread, toes bloody, hair plastered to her throat. Metronomes.
"On my three," Gavin said. "Madison first with her, inside rail. I'm rear."
Madison flexed the door and set to pivot. "Copy."
No speech. Air was for action.
"One."
The upper door banged onto their flight; metal thrummed. The tux kept coming. The woman's toes printed sticky shine.
"Two."
The landing door behind Madison jumped as the thing outside threw its whole weight at hope. The bar yelped. The woman flinched, grabbed fabric, jaw set like a kid on a ride.
"Three."
Gavin turned to give them the lane—and the stairwell became a drum from above, a wrench of the handle below, and one thin voice at his shoulder saying, "Don't let go."