Red and blue lights at the end of the alley grew brighter, their reflections slicing through the rain, breaking the puddles on the ground into uneven lines. Darin recognized the pattern. The police were not coming alone. They would seal off two access points, then advance slowly, careful and methodical.He had to leave.Now.But the boy’s body was still in his arms, light, yet carrying a weight he could not simply set down. That small, broken breathing was still there, uneven but real.The sirens were not the only sound drawing closer.Footsteps slipped through the rain. Steady. People who knew exactly where they were going.Darin turned toward the opposite end of the alley, away from the police.The darkness there was thicker, and it moved.“Move,” he whispered, mostly to himself. He shifted the boy so he was propped against the wall, shrugged off his jacket, and pressed it against the crudely sealed wound. His movements were not gentle, but precise, like handling something fragile t

The iron door of the old factory stood half open, its hinges creaking softly as if reluctant to give way.A man stepped through the gap slowly. His movements were measured, unhurried. One hand was raised to chest level, palm open, a deliberate gesture of peace. The simple black jacket he wore was clean, almost too neat for a place like this. No weapon was visible. Not at his waist, not at his shoulders. His hair was neatly combed, the look of a professional, as if he were attending a business meeting rather than walking across the cold concrete floor of a fugitive’s shelter.“Easy,” he said. His voice was low and steady, the voice of someone used to being heard and obeyed. “I’m alone.”Darin did not lower his knife. His grip stayed tight, knuckles pale. His body leaned slightly forward in a clear defensive stance, deliberately blocking Rian completely behind him. He became a living wall.His legs felt heavy, as if filled with wet sand that drained his strength. Simply standing demande

The fire in District 7 did not burn like a sudden war that swallowed everything at once. It did not arrive with a great roar or blinding flashes of light. It crept in quietly, slowly, like a disease slipping into the body of the city without a sound, killing it piece by piece.Smoke hung low between the decrepit buildings, clinging to cracked walls and perforated tin roofs. The glow of streetlights was smothered by gray haze, blurred and trembling, like tired eyes forced to stay open. Darin staggered ahead, his steps no longer steady, his shoulders tilting to one side. Rian followed two steps behind, head lowered, coughing into the sleeve of a shirt already blackened with soot.“This smell…” Rian whimpered softly, his voice hoarse. “It’s like burning plastic.”“Warehouses,” Darin answered shortly, his breathing heavy. “They burn the small ones first, panic people, mess up the streets, confuse the cops.”“And then?” Rian asked quickly.“Then they move in.”Rian stopped short, his shoes

The man stopped three steps short of the edge of the light.A nearly dead streetlamp flickered above his head, making his face surface and sink back into shadow. Black jacket, heavy boots, relaxed posture but ready. Not the type to shout while pointing a gun.The type who waited for his opponent to make a mistake.“Alone?” he asked, his voice low, almost friendly.Darin did not answer.He leaned slightly forward, his body shielding Rian without needing to look back. The stance was an old reflex, not warm or protective, more like a shield ready to crack.The man glanced past Darin, his eyes catching a small movement.“Oh,” he said softly. “You brought a kid.”Rian clutched Darin’s jacket tighter. His nails pressed into skin.“The kid has nothing to do with this,” Darin said. His voice was flat. Not a threat. A statement.The man smiled faintly. “In a place like this, everyone has something to do with it.”He glanced briefly toward the truck behind him. The metal tank sat still, heavy,

Darin stood with both hands open, palms facing down, his fingers slightly tensed as if holding back the vibration traveling from his arms into his chest. His breathing was still heavy from the earlier impact, uneven, scraping his throat on the way in and out. Something cold pressed against the back of his head, a cold that could not be mistaken. Metal. Its shape was clear without needing to see it. The muzzle of a gun. He did not need to turn to know the angle or the distance. One pull of a finger.Across from him, Rian struggled weakly. His movements were small, ineffective. The ten-year-old’s body was too light, too easy to restrain. He fought in the only way he knew, twisting, kicking at the air, rolling his shoulders, hoping the grip would loosen, even just a little.It did not.“Stay still,” said the man holding Rian, his tone lazy, almost bored. His hand tightened instead, fingers digging deeper into the boy’s arm.Rian winced, his jaw set against the pain, but he did not cry. H