Number Seven's boots sank into the mud, her breath a jagged blade in her throat. The air stank of moss, copper, and ozone. Her eyes, furious and red-rimmed, burned toward the signal—a faint pulse of light beyond the dark trees, mocking her brother's death. Her twin, her shadow, her half-soul, snuffed out like a candle in a storm.
She lunged forward, muscles screaming with grief and adrenaline, only to be yanked back by Number Ten's iron grip.
"Wait, you fucking idiot," Ten hissed, his voice low, sharp enough to cut through her haze. "Number Nine died. Someone powerful is out there. Think for a bloody second."
"Let me go, you fiend!" Seven roared, her voice cracking like a bone. She turned on him, her fists slamming into his chestplate, each hit a plea, a prayer, a curse. Her eyes, wet and raw, spilled tears that clung to her lashes, refusing to fall. "My… my brother…" Her voice broke, a sob cutting off her words, raw and gasping.
