The clearing opens too suddenly.
Moonlight spills across wet grass—SHIMMER—and my first thought is how exposed we are. No trees close enough to hide. No shadows deep enough to disappear into.
Just space.
And headlights.
They flare from the road—SWEEP—white and blinding, cutting straight through the clearing like a blade. An engine revs—VROOOOM—low, controlled.
I skid to a stop, chest heaving. "Serafin—!"
"I see it," he says, breathless, appearing at my side like he tore himself out of the dark. His arm hooks around my waist, dragging me sideways as another light snaps on—CLICK—from the treeline behind us.
We're boxed in.
"Fuck," I whisper.
"Not yet," he says sharply. "Look."
He points—quick, urgent—toward a dip in the ground near the edge of the clearing. Concrete. A dark mouth half-hidden by weeds.
"A culvert," he says. "Runoff channel under the highway."
I hesitate. "That's—"
"—tight," he finishes. "Yes. That's the point."
A shout rings out—YELL—too close now, followed by boots pounding—THUMP THUMP—closing fast.
We sprint.
The headlights swing—SWEEP—tracking us. A horn blares—HONK—angry, impatient.
A gunshot cracks—BANG!—the sound tearing through my nerves. Dirt kicks up beside my foot—SPLAT—and I scream, momentum carrying me forward.
Serafin shoves me down the embankment—SLIDE—and we tumble hard—THUD—into the mouth of the culvert.
Cold water soaks my knees instantly—SPLASH—and the smell hits next: rot, oil, stagnant runoff.
"Move," he says, already pulling me forward.
The culvert narrows fast. Concrete presses in on both sides. My shoulders scrape—SCRAPE SCRAPE—and panic surges, sharp and immediate.
"I can't breathe," I gasp.
"You can," he says firmly, crawling ahead of me. "Slow breaths. Follow my voice."
Behind us, light floods the entrance—SWEEP—and a voice echoes down the tunnel, distorted and cruel.
"You really think a hole is going to save you?"
Another gunshot—BANG!—the sound deafening in the confined space. Water splashes violently—SPLASH—spraying my face.
I scream, ducking instinctively.
"They won't follow far," Serafin says, though his voice tightens. "Too narrow. Too risky."
"And if they do?" I choke.
"Then we keep moving."
The tunnel curves slightly, plunging us deeper into darkness. Every sound magnifies—the drip of water—DRIP DRIP—our breathing—HAAH HAAH—the scrape of skin against concrete.
My hands shake. My knees burn. Fear coils tight in my chest.
"Serafin," I whisper. "If we get out—if—we don't keep running like this."
He pauses just long enough to look back at me. Even in the dark, I can see his eyes. Steady. Intent.
"I know," he says. "That's why they're scared."
A metallic clatter echoes faintly behind us—CLINK—followed by a curse.
"They're checking the entrance," I say.
"Let them," he replies. "They won't like what they can't see."
We crawl until the tunnel widens slightly, enough for us to crouch. My legs tremble violently when I try to stand.
"I'm tired," I admit, shame and exhaustion crashing over me. "I don't know how much longer I can—"
Serafin reaches for my hands, grounding, warm. "You don't have to be strong forever. Just right now."
Sirens wail in the distance—WEE-OO—closer than before. Real. Chaotic.
"Police," I whisper. "They're close."
"Yes," he says. "But so are the others."
A shadow flickers across the tunnel entrance—SWEEP—someone pacing outside. A flashlight beam skims the concrete, stopping just short of reaching us.
The voice again, clearer now. "You can come out, Caoimhe. Or we can wait."
I swallow hard. "They're patient."
"They think time's on their side," Serafin says. "That's their mistake."
My phone vibrates weakly in my pocket—bzzzzt—somehow still alive. I don't look.
"I'm done being quiet," I say, anger bleeding through the fear. "They want me silent. Small. Afraid."
Serafin nods. "And?"
"And I won't give them that," I finish.
A crunch of gravel—CRUNCH—then another engine—VROOOOM—approaching fast. Tires skid—SCREECH—voices overlap, tense.
Someone shouts, "Police! Drop your weapon!"
Gunfire erupts—BANG BANG—chaos exploding above us. The tunnel reverberates—BOOM—dust raining down.
I flinch, covering my head.
"Now," Serafin says urgently. "We move on the noise."
We crawl forward again, deeper, faster, water sloshing—SPLASH SPLASH—sirens blaring louder—WEE-OO WEE-OO—until the tunnel begins to slope upward.
Light appears ahead. Dim. Uncertain.
Hope.
We emerge on the far side—SCRAPE—into thick brush near the highway embankment. Traffic roars overhead—ROAR—indifferent, relentless.
I collapse onto the grass, laughing and crying at the same time. "We made it."
Serafin doesn't answer.
I push myself up, dread crawling up my spine. "Serafin?"
He stands frozen, staring toward the road.
Red and blue lights flash above—SWEEP—police vehicles screeching to a halt.
And standing between us and them—
Is a figure I recognize.
Not from tonight.
From the past.
From the reason I left.
My breath catches painfully.
Because if they're here—
Then this was never just about silence.
It was about ending something that should have stayed buried.