The shot broke open in the corridor.
Sarah went back a step, then down — sliding along the wall, settling on the floor, not moving.
A second of quiet.
The other two were still. Both looking at Sarah. I was standing there with the gun still raised, the muzzle pointed at where she'd been, my arms shaking — not just my hands now, my whole arms — the sound of the shot still cycling through my ears, pressing everything else underneath.
I waited.
Waited for whatever I'd thought would happen.
One second. Two. Three. The corridor was quiet, only my own breathing, quick and out of control.
Did I get it wrong.
The thought arrived fast and heavy, pressing straight down. I stared at Sarah, my heartbeat breaking up — what if this was real, what if I'd just hurt someone real, what if I'd just done something that couldn't be taken back.
Then I saw the floor.
Clean. The floor was its usual grey-white, unchanged, nothing running from where she'd landed, nothing spreading. Just the floor, exactly as it had always been, as if nothing had touched it.
Sarah lifted her head and looked at me. No wound on her face. No blood. Only on her forehead, in the centre of it, a faint round mark — as if something had pressed there lightly and left its impression. Just that. Gone in a moment.
"How did you know this was still the dream," she said. Her voice was the same as before, even, not a real question — more the quality of a statement, something confirmed.
I looked at her, at that mark on her forehead, at the way she was standing. Nothing in me that could form words.
"We have to get you through the exit before the time runs out," she said, taking a step toward me. "There isn't much left."
I raised the gun and kept going until the magazine was empty.
One by one — at Sarah, at the other two — each shot making their bodies stagger slightly, as if catching an impact, but none of them falling, none of them bleeding, all of them steadying and continuing forward, continuing to look at me, their expressions having shifted from something communicative into something else. Something set on completing a task.
The last shot came and the trigger clicked on empty.
I let the gun fall. It hit the floor and the sound bounced along the corridor walls.
I turned and ran.
My footsteps were loud — the corridor's surface gave nothing back softly. I didn't look behind me. Just ran, back the way we'd come, toward the corner, and the footsteps behind me started — three sets, even, quick, closing the distance. I rounded the corner. Another stretch of corridor. The doors on both sides all closed. The lights white. My lungs already starting to press back. I didn't stop. I kept going until I could see a door at the far end.
"Elena. Stop." Sarah's voice, from not far behind. Close. "You can't go anywhere from here. There's no exit."
I ignored her. I hit the door and pushed through.
The room was empty. White walls, no windows, no second door. I turned in a quick circle — nothing, no way through. Just a dead end, four walls and a floor.
I spun to face the door and pressed my back against it, all my weight into it.
The impact came immediately from the other side. Once. Twice. I set my teeth and pushed my feet against the floor, every bit of weight and force I could manage, but on the third hit the door started moving inward. My feet slipped back slightly. Fourth hit. I was losing ground. Fifth — the door broke open and I stumbled backwards, two steps, and hit the opposite wall.
They came in.
Sarah in the doorway. Looking at me. "Come with us. As fast as possible. The door is almost gone."
I pressed back into the corner, my back against the wall. "Don't come closer."
She kept walking. The other two followed, spreading out, and the space between me and the wall compressed slowly. I moved to one side. A hand caught my arm. I pulled away. Another hand caught hold, and I wrenched and pushed, but two of them, just me, my strength running down with each passing second.
Sarah reached me and took hold of the other side. Three of them — and I was pulled forward, toward the doorway, back into the corridor, in the direction of the door.
"Let go —"
My voice broke against the walls. I drove my feet into the floor, twisted my whole body in the other direction — none of it enough. Their combined force was too much. I was being moved, a little at a time, toward the corridor, into the corridor, toward the door.
The lights in the corridor began to change.
Not going out — going down. Degree by degree, the white fading toward something warmer, the warmer fading toward grey, the walls losing their colour, the sounds dulling, growing further away, as if something was being drawn back from between me and them.
"Let — go —"
Still fighting. Every bit of it still in use — kicking, pulling, twisting. But the door was coming closer. The light beneath it was dimming too, pulling inward, but still there, still not completely gone.
Sarah said something close to my ear. I couldn't resolve it into words — it was already arriving from somewhere that felt further away than where she was standing, each syllable blurred.
Everything getting darker.
I was still fighting. Still pushing against it. My fingers dug into the wall of the corridor, my heels into the floor. Still moving forward. Toward the door. Toward the last of the light.
I didn't know if the time had run out.
Or if I'd been pushed through.
Everything went dark.