The first rule of running, Mira learned, was that adrenaline lied.
It told you that you could go forever. That your lungs wouldn't burn. That your legs wouldn't shake. That fear was just another kind of fuel.
The second rule was that adrenaline always collected its debt.
They didn't make it far before Mira had to stop.
They had left Aristella's grounds through a service gate Leo somehow knew about something involving a delivery driver, a borrowed keycard, and a promise to "absolutely never talk about this again." The road beyond the academy dipped into a line of trees that swallowed the lights and the noise and the last illusion of safety.
Now, in the dark, with the wind cold against her face and the ground uneven beneath her shoes, Mira bent forward, hands on her knees, trying to convince her lungs not to file a formal complaint.
"I hate," she gasped, "everything about this."
