Morning brought grim news: Michael had escaped.
I felt my blood run cold.
Zeal's coffee cup slipped from her hand, shattering against the floor. We were suddenly stripped bare, exposed, and vulnerable.
We packed with quiet urgency, grabbing only what we could carry. Documents, cash, essentials. No time to think. Only action.
As we fled through the empty streets, the city behind us shrank like a memory. My hands gripped the steering wheel, white-knuckled, every glance in the rearview mirror a surge of panic.
Zeal's hand found mine, squeezing tight. "Where will we go?"
"Anywhere he can't find us," I whispered, though I didn't believe it completely.
The city's streets blurred beneath us. Red lights, dark alleys, and the constant fear of unseen eyes following. Each turn, each intersection was a gamble — we didn't know if Michael was already ahead, waiting, or still hunting.
I kept glancing at Zeal, tracing her jawline with my eyes, memorizing her expression, her fear. I wanted her to see hope in me, even if I didn't feel it myself. And for brief moments, our fingers intertwined like a lifeline, grounding us in reality amid the chaos.