The night burned in my lungs.

Smoke, blood, gunpowder—every breath tasted like the wreckage of who I used to be.

Elena was a few steps ahead, her hair matted with ash, her skin slick with sweat and fear, but she didn’t stop running. Neither did I. The gunfire had quieted behind us, replaced by the hum of the city bleeding into dawn.

When we reached the safehouse, I collapsed against the wall, my body screaming for mercy it would never get. My hands trembled, caked in blood—some of it mine, most of it theirs.

Elena turned to me, her chest heaving. “You’re hurt,” she said, her voice cracking.

I should...