Kael kept running, fingers sliding along the wall while his boots hammered the floor beneath him. The concrete was rough and damp, flaking in places where water had crept in and chewed at it for years, and the cold grit scraped under his nails every time his hand slipped and he had to re-find the edge. He couldn't see a damn thing, so touch became his eyes, wall on the right, open space on the left, and the occasional jut of pipe or broken panel that threatened to snag his sleeve and make him eat the floor.
His lungs burned and his legs felt like they were full of sand, but he forced himself to keep moving anyway. Every breath tasted like stale metal and old smoke. The air down here wasn't meant for sprinting; it was meant for hiding and rotting.
