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They didn't stop running until the city lights reappeared in the distance.
The forest had spat them out at the edge of Bellwick's northern road, where weeds split the cracked asphalt and lampposts leaned like tired sentries. Cass finally slowed, boots scuffing the pavement, his chest heaving as though his lungs were trying to claw their way out of his ribs.
Elara staggered to a halt beside him, bent double, palms braced against her knees. Every part of her body screamed—her calves quivered, her throat burned, her heart thundered with the aftershock of pure panic. She tasted copper at the back of her tongue, as if fear itself had left a residue.
They had cut through the riverside woods, scrambled up an embankment slick with mud, crossed two empty streets that felt too wide and too exposed. At last, Cass had pulled her beneath the cracked awning of a boarded-up gas station, its sign hanging crooked, its pumps rusting like forgotten bones.
Elara collapsed onto the curb, sucking in lungfuls of damp night air. She wanted to cry, but her body didn't have room for tears—every nerve was stretched too tight, too alert.
Cass leaned against the graffiti-stained wall, sweat dripping from his hair. His grin was there, the reckless one that was more armor than expression, though even that faltered at the edges. "Well," he panted, voice rough, "that was fun."
Elara lifted her head, eyes blazing. "Fun?" She pressed a shaking hand to her chest. "They—Cass—they tried to kill us!"
His grin faltered completely, leaving him bare, the mask slipping. He didn't deny it. Just glanced back the way they had come, toward Bellwick's skeletal ruins where the broken clock tower loomed faintly against a cloudy sky. "Yeah. Which means Dad really was onto something. People don't shoot at you for old junk."
Elara's legs gave out. She slid down until she was sitting, back against the cold brick. The strap of her bag cut into her shoulder, but she clutched it tighter anyway, pressing it against her ribs like a shield. Inside, wrapped and worn, was their father's journal—the thing everyone seemed to want, the thing that had already gotten them chased, nearly killed.
"I hate this," she whispered. Her voice cracked, brittle. "Dad's dead. Our house was broken into. Now men with guns—masks, Cass, masks—are hunting us. What if we're in way over our heads?"
Cass crouched in front of her, elbows braced on his knees. His face softened—a rarity, almost unfamiliar. "We are in over our heads. No question." He gave a small, humorless laugh. "But if we don't figure this out, they will. And then we'll never know what Dad died for."
The words landed like stones, heavy and undeniable.
Elara looked away, staring at the pavement cracked with weeds. She wanted to scream that she didn't care, that nothing—not answers, not some hidden truth—was worth this nightmare. But the thought stuck in her throat. Deep down, she knew Cass was right. Their father hadn't trusted anyone else with this journal. He had trusted them.
Her hands trembled as she pulled it from the bag. The leather was worn, soft with age, edges smudged with dirt from the tunnel. She flipped it open on her lap, the faint glow of a distant streetlight illuminating the inked map. The crescent symbol pulled her eyes like gravity.
"There's more here," she murmured, tracing it with her fingertip. "Something we missed."
Cass shifted closer, shoulder brushing hers, breath still unsteady. His gaze was sharper now, the wild spark in his eyes rekindling. "Go back a page."
She did. And there, half-hidden in the corner, beneath a blur of smudged ink and grime, was a faint cluster of numbers. Barely visible. As though their father had tried to hide them, or else time itself had.
Cass exhaled sharply. "Coordinates."
Elara blinked. "You think so?"
"Not think." His finger tapped the page with certainty. "Know. Dad taught me. Longitude, latitude. Look—see the format? He drilled me on it when I was a kid. Said it was a 'language for explorers.'"
His voice caught for a heartbeat, but he pushed through. "It's not a street. It's not Bellwick. This—" he tapped again "—is bigger. Bellwick was just the beginning."
Elara's stomach twisted. She had been hoping this cursed night would end in answers, in closure. Instead, it was only another door swinging open, revealing a darker hallway beyond.
Cass must have seen the flicker of fear across her face, because his crooked smile returned, softer this time. "Hey. We made it out tonight, didn't we? We'll make it through the rest."
Elara closed the journal with shaking hands, fingers lingering on the cracked spine. She wanted—God, she wanted—to believe him.
But the voice across the bridge still echoed in her head: The map belongs to us.
Whoever those masked figures were, they weren't going to stop.
A breeze rattled the loose sign above the gas station. Elara glanced up. The street stretched out in both directions, empty and too quiet. The lamppost above them buzzed faintly, its glow flickering as if it might die at any moment. Every window across the street was dark, hollow-eyed.
Her skin prickled.
"Cass," she whispered. Her voice was so thin she wasn't sure he'd hear. "What if they're already watching us?"
Cass's mouth opened with some quick retort, but then his head tilted, eyes cutting past her. His grin dropped. His body went still.
Elara froze. Her pulse throbbed in her throat. Slowly, as though dragged by invisible strings, she turned.
On the gas station wall behind her, in thick black strokes that hadn't been there minutes ago, was a message:
LEAVE THE MAP. OR NEXT TIME YOU DON'T RUN.
The letters dripped, the paint still wet. The smell of aerosol was sharp in the air.
Elara's breath caught like a hook in her chest.
Cass swore under his breath, low and vicious. He grabbed her arm, hauling her up from the curb. His grip was tight, fingers shaking. "We need to move. Now."
Elara's legs nearly buckled, but adrenaline shoved her upright. She didn't protest. Couldn't. The journal thudded against her side as they slipped into the shadows once more, moving fast, every nerve screaming.
The night felt darker than before, the silence heavier, as if the whole city were holding its breath. And the words on the wall followed her like a second heartbeat:
Next time you don't run.
The journal, suddenly, was heavier than ever.
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