Zane's breath came in shallow bursts, his chest tight as a fist. The air in the half-built corridors felt thick, suffocating — a mixture of wet dust, rust, and gun oil. His heart hammered in his ears so hard it drowned everything else out.
Everything went blurry. The concrete pillars lost their sharp edges. The two gunmen moving closer became indistinct shapes. Jason was still beside him, shaking his shoulder, his voice urgent, frustrated—'Run! Zane!'—but the words were just noise, like static from a broken radio. It didn't matter. He'd already decided.
He coiled his legs, ready to launch himself forward, towards the danger.
He took the first step, pushing off—
and then a hand closed around his neck.
A vice-like grip.
This grip was too strong, completely unmovable. Cold spread from the point of contact, fingers digging in, pressure building just below his neck. He was stopped dead, his momentum hitting a wall.
He turned. Met Franz's eyes.
