Damien's frantic gaze darted toward the open mouth of the alley. Fifty feet. On a normal day, a trivial sprint.
Tonight, with a shattered femur and a body running on empty, it might as well have been the moon. And even if he could somehow drag himself upright, could he outrun a man who folded space?
The crushing weight of the answer sat heavy in his chest.
Damien swallowed, tasting copper. "...This is bad timing."
The words tumbled out, a pathetic, involuntary whisper.
For a fraction of a second, the ghost of a smile touched Stan's lips. Of all the things a bulletproof fugitive could have said while bleeding out in a dumpster alley, that was spectacularly self-aware. Stan thought briefly of Sophie, waiting for him back in her warm, neon-lit apartment, and Zoey, safe on the other side of the city. He had a beautiful, complicated life worth getting back to. Damien was just a mess on the floor that needed cleaning up.
