The echo of the gunshot still hung in the air like a dying crack of thunder when movement erupted below.
Down beneath us, Sinn and the group started running toward the stairs. Sinn's tall frame broke into motion first, his right boot lifting from the cracked pavement in slow degrees, the sole scraping against loose gravel that scattered in tiny sparks under the moonlight.
His left arm pumped forward, jacket flapping open in heavy folds. Behind him, the others followed in a staggered wave: boots pounding, bodies leaning into the sprint, their faces tight with sudden alarm.
The sound of their footsteps rose in a delayed, chaotic rhythm, dull thuds against concrete that traveled upward through the night air toward us.
May reacted instantly.
She pulled away from me, her body twisting with urgent grace. Her hands moved quickly, yet every motion stretched under the slow lens of the moment.
