I stare at the door. The voices have fallen silent. My throat burns, the vial still scratching the pit of my stomach.
A click. The handle quivers. Another voice, rasping, low.
— Had fun with the Captain, huh?
— Who are you?
— Shut up. Drink what's left. You'll need it.
I clutch the empty vial. Nothing left to drink. Just the bitter taste clinging to my teeth. My wound throbs. My skin prickles. The Mark growls beneath my ribs, like a creeping fire.
The lock snaps with a sharp crack. I barely have time to back away. The door swings open onto a shadowed figure, hood pulled low.
— Want out, Tracer?
— I want… to survive.
— You're bleeding.
— Still standing.
— We'll see.
The figure steps closer. I retreat to the wall. My breath makes the light tremble.
— Touch the handle, it orders.
— Why?
— Do it.
I obey. The metal is icy. A spike of pain shoots through my hand. The Mark floods in, eager, vibrating.
— You feel it?
— Yes… too strong.
— Let go, now!
I release. A line of fire races from my fingers to my shoulder. I bite my lip.
— The Mark drains you, doesn't it?
— If I let it, it hollows me out.
— How long do you think you'll last like that?
— I don't have a choice.
A laugh—harsh, ambiguous. I can't tell if it's a man or a woman.
— The Captain wants a weapon, not a corpse. Me, I just want through.
— Through where?
— The door. But the lock's dead. Without the Mark, nothing opens. You understand?
A chill runs through me. The figure lifts a hand, offers an object. A shard of glass, etched with symbols.
— Smash this on the handle. Give the Mark enough and it'll open the way.
— And me? What happens to me?
— Alive. If you're quick.
I clutch the shard in my palm. Blood already slicks it.
— You're not coming?
— I don't stay. The Captain's coming, with his keys and his hounds.
My heart slams. I glance at the door. I crush the shard against the handle.
The Mark erupts. It drinks. My strength drains, sucked into the metal, pain exploding in my side.
The door shudders. The figure lunges, yanks me by the shoulder.
— Run! Now!
I obey. The corridor, the night, the fog ahead.
Behind, voices, boots.
Ahead, the Mark howls, demanding more.
— Don't stop, the figure breathes in my ear. Or you're dead.
— I know.
My legs buckle. My vision reels. The Mark burns, devouring each step.
Another corridor. A staircase. A hatch of pale light.
— There!
— And you?
— Don't worry. Run.
I hurl myself into the light. The outside air slaps, freezing. My wound bleeds, each drop pounding in my skull.
The Mark inside me is ravenous. It's taken too much. More than ever before.
My hand shakes. I collapse to my knees.
Behind, the figure vanishes. A whistle. Shouts. A gunshot.
I crawl, the Mark growling under my skin.
A taste of ash in my mouth.
The night outside, vast.
A murmur, in my head, not mine:
— Let me out, and I'll open anything you want.
I lift my head. My palm bleeds into the black earth.
Another lock, further on.
A choice to make.