he knife lay where it had fallen, a silent witness between them. Elena's hands pressed against her temples, Damian's apology still echoing when the sound cut through the tunnels.
Click. Click. Click.
Not footsteps. Metallic. Mechanical. Hunting.
Damian's head snapped up. "They've found us."
Before Elena could move, a scarlet dot blinked onto the wall beside her. Then another. Three. Four.
Laser sights.
"Down!" Damian yanked her just as the first shot cracked. Concrete splintered, dust clouding the room. They dove behind the overturned locker as bullets screamed past.
Elena's chest heaved. Rage and heartbreak still burned like acid in her veins, but now it mixed with survival terror. She shoved a magazine into her pistol, teeth clenched.
"Your mess or mine?" she snapped over the gunfire.
"Neither," Damian growled, firing a controlled burst. "Syndicate sweepers. They don't leave bodies—they erase them."
A bullet punched through the locker, missing Elena's shoulder by an inch. She hissed and shifted lower. "You always did bring me to the nicest places."
Despite the chaos, he smirked faintly. "You're welcome."
She almost laughed—almost—but another burst shredded the wall behind them.
Trapped. Outnumbered. And yet, side by side again.
Damian leaned closer, voice low, steady against the storm. "Two shooters in the main tunnel. More closing from the service shaft. We're boxed in."
"Then we cut through them." Elena's eyes glinted with cold fire. "I've been waiting to kill something tonight."
He gave her a look—half warning, half admiration. "On my mark."
When the shooting paused for a reload, Damian vaulted from cover, firing sharp and precise. Elena followed, rolling across the damp floor, taking her shot at the muzzle flash ahead. Screams echoed—one hostile dropped.
The sweepers closed fast. Black-clad figures surged from the tunnel, masks blank, rifles raised. Elena kicked over a broken toolbox, sending sparks flying as she opened fire. Damian covered her flank, bullets whistling inches past his head.
But for every one they dropped, another shadow replaced it.
"Too many!" Elena barked, ducking as rounds tore into the concrete column.
Damian's hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, dragging her toward the narrow side passage. "This way!"
They sprinted into the dark, boots pounding through ankle-deep water. Bullets snapped at their heels, ricocheting off the rusted pipes overhead.
Elena's breath was ragged, fury boiling. "You drag me into hell, and now you want me to trust you to lead me out?"
"This isn't about trust—it's about survival!" he snapped back, slamming a fresh clip into his pistol.
Behind them, the sweepers' lights swept closer, beams slicing through the dark.
They skidded around a corner—and froze. Ahead, the tunnel split into three.
Damian cursed under his breath. "Dead end if we guess wrong."
The sweepers closed in, their boots slamming like a countdown. Elena raised her pistol, eyes blazing. "Then we don't guess. We make our own way."
Before he could stop her, she aimed high and fired. Sparks exploded as her bullets shredded an overhead pipe. Steam burst forth, scalding hot, filling the tunnel in a blinding white cloud.
The sweepers shouted, stumbling as the hiss filled the air.
Damian grabbed her hand and pulled her into the left passage, vanishing into the fog.
The chase thundered on, but behind them, the screams of disoriented sweepers echoed through the choking mist.
For now, they had escaped.
But as they ran side by side, hearts pounding, Elena's mind screamed louder than the gunfire ever could.
He was there the night of the fire. He knew. He lied.
And no amount of bullets would ever drown that out.