I don't move.
I don't breathe.
I don't even blink.
The darkness presses in so tightly it feels solid, like I could push my palms against it and leave fingerprints behind. My heart slams against my ribs—THUD THUD THUD—each beat too loud, too reckless.
Above me, nothing.
No voices. No footsteps. No gunshots.
Just silence.
"Serafin," I whisper again, my throat raw.
Nothing answers.
The crawlspace smells like rust and wet earth—DRIP… DRIP…—the sound of water echoing somewhere deeper below. My fingers tremble as I finally push myself upright, wincing as pain flares along my side.
"Fuck," I hiss.
I crawl forward on hands and knees—SCRAPE SCRAPE—the concrete biting into my palms. Every movement feels like a betrayal, like if I move too much, I'll erase whatever chance there is that he's still alive up there.
A muffled sound reaches me—THUMP—followed by a low voice.
"…check the back."
I freeze.
My blood turns to ice.
Boots scrape above—SCUFF—then pause.
A flashlight beam slashes briefly through a crack in the ceiling—SWEEP—close enough that I can see dust motes dance.
"Nothing," the voice mutters. "She's gone."
Gone.
The word hits harder than any bullet.
Footsteps retreat—CRUNCH—fading slowly until there's nothing again but the drip of water and my own ragged breathing.
I press my forehead to the ground, shaking.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, to no one and everyone. "I'm so fucking sorry."
Minutes pass. Or hours. Time dissolves into pain and guilt.
Eventually, survival kicks me in the ribs.
I move.
The crawlspace slopes downward, then levels out. My knee slips—SLIDE—sending me crashing forward—THUD—stars bursting behind my eyes.
"Shit," I groan.
I force myself up again, ignoring the pain, following the faint pull of cooler air ahead. The space opens slowly, mercifully, until I can finally stand.
A rusted ladder looms ahead.
I climb—CLANG CLANG—each rung protesting my weight. My hands shake so badly I almost miss the final grip.
I push up—CREAK—and the hatch gives way.
Cold night air hits my face—WHOOSH—and I suck it in greedily, lungs burning.
I'm in a clearing now, trees circling like silent witnesses. The road lies just beyond, empty and dark.
Too quiet.
I stagger forward, boots crunching softly—CRUNCH—my entire body aching. I make it three steps before my legs give out.
I collapse to my knees—THUD—and finally let myself cry.
A sob tears out of me, ugly and broken. "I didn't want this," I choke. "I never wanted any of this."
The wind answers—RUSTLE—cold fingers brushing my skin.
Headlights bloom suddenly through the trees—SWEEP—and I flinch violently, scrambling backward.
"No—no, please—"
A car slows—GRAVEL CRUNCHING—then stops.
A door opens—CREAK.
"Hey," a voice calls gently. "Easy. You're safe."
A police officer steps into the light, hands visible, posture careful.
I stare at him like he might be a hallucination.
"I—" My voice breaks. "There was a shooting. They—he—"
He moves closer. "Ma'am, you're hurt."
"Serafin," I blurt. "He stayed behind."
The officer's expression tightens. "We received reports. Backup's en route."
"Is he—" I can't finish.
"We're checking," he says. "I promise."
Another car pulls up—VROOOOM—red and blue lights flashing, bathing the trees in color—WEE-OO WEE-OO—surreal and wrong.
They wrap a blanket around me—RUSTLE—the warmth almost unbearable.
I shake my head, numb. "They knew my name. They always knew."
The officer nods slowly. "You weren't imagining it."
That should feel validating.
It feels like a death sentence.
They sit me on the bumper of the cruiser. Someone speaks into a radio—STATIC—words overlapping, urgent.
I catch fragments.
"…abandoned structure…"
"…blood at the scene…"
"…no bodies yet…"
My stomach drops.
I grip the blanket tighter. "Yet?"
The officer hesitates.
That's all the answer I need.
A paramedic kneels in front of me. "Can you tell me where you're hurt?"
"Everywhere," I say hollowly.
She gives a sad half-smile and starts checking my pulse—BEEP—the sound grounding and terrifying all at once.
I look past her, toward the dark line of trees.
That's where it happened.
That's where I ran.
That's where I left him.
A voice crackles over the radio—STATIC—sharper now, urgent.
"Possible movement near the station."
The officer stiffens. "Say again."
"Repeat—possible survivor."
My heart slams—THUD—hope and fear colliding so violently it steals my breath.
I stand too fast—SCRAPE—nearly falling.
"Who?" I demand. "Who did you find?"
The officer meets my eyes, unreadable. "We're not sure yet."
Sirens swell in the distance—WEE-OO—closing in.
I clutch the blanket, nails digging into my palms, every nerve screaming.
Because somewhere between survivor and suspect—
Between rescue and regret—
The truth is about to surface.
And I already know it won't come without a cost.