Chapter 6 · Dead End Dash

"Move your ass or we're both dead!" Elara's voice cracked, barely audible over the screaming roar of the ventilation fans.

She didn't wait for me to answer. She grabbed the collar of my jacket and hauled me forward, her grip tight and desperate. We were sprinting through the guts of the sector—massive, rusted pipes that leaked caustic steam and smelled like a wet dog in a battery factory.

"I'm moving!" I snapped, stumbling as my boot caught on a loose grate. "Maybe if you stopped pulling me like a leash, I'd actually keep up."

"Shut up and run, Kyle!"

Behind us, the rhythmic *clack-clack-clack* of magnetized boots echoed through the shaft. The Hounds. They weren't running; they were gliding, their chrome limbs clicking into the metal walls to accelerate. They were faster, stronger, and they didn't need to breathe this smog.

Elara skidded to a halt at a junction, her chest heaving. She leaned against a vibrating conduit, her skin pale under the flickering amber emergency lights. She looked at me, her eyes scanning my face with that clinical, terrifying intensity.

"They're closing in," she whispered.