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The drainage pipe didn't just release them; it spat them out like unwanted grit, surging with a final, violent heave into the cold surf of Santa Monica.
Alina's world was a spinning kaleidoscope of salt water, dark sky, and the distant, rhythmic pulsing of the Ferris wheel lights. Her head swam, her thoughts scrambled by the lack of oxygen and the sheer physical trauma of the descent.
Every muscle ached as she clawed her way through the foam. Her hair, once neatly styled, was a matted, kelp-strewn mess, and her clothes were soaked to the bone, weighing her down like lead armor. With a final, desperate burst of strength, she dragged herself onto the land, the wet sand gritting beneath her fingernails.
