The camp was already dead.
Fire chewed through canvas and wood alike, flames crawling up tent poles, devouring supplies, spitting sparks into the Chicago night. Smoke rolled low and thick, burning the throat, stinging the eyes. Somewhere in the distance, something collapsed with a hollow, final crash.
Carl dragged himself across the ground.
Glass bit into his palms with every inch he crawled, shards embedding themselves deep, warm blood smearing across the concrete. His face was swollen, one eye nearly shut, blood drying in dark streaks along his cheek and jaw. His breath rattled.
He didn't look back.
He didn't have to.
Footsteps crunched behind him— slow and unhurried.
A silhouette emerged through the smoke, framed by firelight. Tall. Still. Piercings caught the glow first, glinting like embers embedded in skin.
Carl's arm gave out. He collapsed, chest hitting the ground, breath knocked from him in a broken wheeze.
The footsteps stopped.
She stood over him.
