Marceline’s heart thundered against her ribcage like a war drum echoing in an empty field, each beat matching the tempo of her hurried steps. Her heels—sharp and unforgiving against the rigid pavement—created a frantic rhythm in the stillness of the evening. The humid air clung to her skin, heavy and oppressive, almost as if it had transformed into a second layer of clothing, binding her to the chaos of the moment. She wasn’t merely running; she was charging toward him, every ounce of her being focused on the figure ahead. Cross stood there, a striking silhouette carved against the dim light of the streetlamps, dark and composed, an unsettling smirk...