Long-press a paragraph to send danmaku
"Stay behind me."
Iris doesn't move. She's frozen three steps back, heels rooted to marble, staring at the elevator panel like it might explain why we're still dropping when we should've stopped two floors ago.
"Iris." I don't reach for her. I keep my hand where it is—inside my jacket, fingers wrapped around the Glock I'm not supposed to need. "Get behind me. Now."
She moves. Finally. Her shoulder brushes mine and I feel the tremor in her breath, fast and shallow. She smells like expensive perfume and fear.
The elevator lurches. Stops.
Floor twelve.
The doors slide open and I see the muzzle flash before I hear the shot.
I shove Iris sideways. She hits the back wall hard, gasping, and I'm already moving, dragging the Glock up as the first round punches through my shoulder. Pain explodes white-hot down my arm but my finger finds the trigger and I put two rounds center mass into the shooter in the hallway.
He drops.
Two more behind him.
I fire. Miss. The recoil's wrong, my shoulder's screaming, and they're already spreading, one left one right, professional spacing, suppressed rifles coming up smooth and fast.
I throw myself back into the elevator, slamming the close button with my elbow, but the doors don't move. They're jammed. Or overridden. Doesn't matter which.
"Cade—"
"Shut up." I grab her wrist and yank her down as the next burst rips through the space where her head was. The back wall of the elevator punches inward, metal shrieking, and I feel something hot streak across my ribs.
No exit. No cover. No time.
I twist, firing blind into the hallway, buying seconds. My shoulder's wet. Warm. I can't feel my fingers anymore but I keep squeezing the trigger until the slide locks back, empty.
Iris is pressed against me, shaking so hard I can feel it in my bones.
"We're going to die," she whispers.
"Not yet."
I drop the Glock and reach for the spare mag on my belt but my hand won't close right and the mag hits the floor, clattering away into the corner. Blood's running down my arm now, dripping off my knuckles, and the two shooters are advancing, rifles up, taking their time because they know I'm done.
I should've seen this coming. Should've checked the route twice. Should've told Iris to cancel the whole damn event.
Should've walked away when I had the chance.
"I'm sorry," I tell her.
She looks up at me. Her eyes are dark, wet, furious. "You don't get to apologize."
"Yeah. I know."
The first shooter steps into the elevator. He's young, maybe twenty-five, clean-shaven, wearing a maintenance uniform that doesn't fit right. His rifle's a custom build, suppressor still warm. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to. This is a job, not a conversation.
I shift, putting myself between him and Iris, and he shoots me in the chest.
The impact knocks me back into her and we go down together, tangled, her hands clutching at my jacket. I can't breathe. Can't see straight. The pain's everywhere and nowhere, a roaring static that drowns out everything except the sound of her voice.
"Cade. Cade, stay with me."
I try to answer but my mouth won't work. Blood's filling my throat, hot and thick, choking me. The second shooter's standing over us now, rifle aimed at Iris, and I want to move, want to do something, but my body won't listen anymore.
Iris leans down. Her hair falls across my face, soft and dark, and her lips brush my ear.
"Kandahar," she whispers. "You said you'd never leave me behind."
Kandahar.
I haven't heard that name in six years.
The rifle fires and Iris jerks, her weight collapsing onto me, and the last thing I feel is her blood mixing with mine, warm and slick, pooling under us both.
Then nothing.
—
I wake up standing.
The elevator doors are closed.
I'm not bleeding. My shoulder doesn't hurt. My chest—I press my hand against it, feeling for the wound, but there's nothing. No hole. No blood. Just the smooth fabric of my jacket and the steady hammer of my heart underneath.
What the hell.
I look down. My hands are clean. No blood on my knuckles, no wetness on my palms. The Glock's back in its holster, heavy and solid against my ribs. The spare mag's on my belt where it should be.
Iris is standing behind me, three steps back, staring at the elevator panel.
She hasn't moved yet.
She hasn't said anything.
Because this is—
No. That's not possible.
I died. I felt it. The bullet tore through my chest and I drowned in my own blood and Iris—
Kandahar.
She said Kandahar.
I turn, slow, and look at her. She's exactly the way she was before. Same dress, same heels, same expression—nervous, distracted, irritated that the elevator's taking too long. She doesn't look at me. Doesn't seem to notice anything wrong.
"Iris," I say.
She blinks. Glances up. "What?"
"Do you—" I stop. What am I supposed to ask? Do you remember dying? Do you know what just happened?
She frowns. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing." My voice sounds normal. Steady. Like I'm not losing my mind. "Just stay close when the doors open."
"You already said that."
Yeah. I did.
The elevator lurches.
Floor twelve.
I draw the Glock before the doors start moving. Iris makes a startled noise behind me but I don't look back, I'm watching the gap as it widens, waiting for the muzzle flash—
It comes.
I fire first this time, two quick shots into the hallway before the shooter can adjust, and I hear him grunt, staggering back. I don't wait to see if he drops. I grab Iris by the arm and haul her out of the elevator, moving right, away from the killzone, putting the wall at my back.
Two more shooters. Same positions. Same rifles.
They open fire and I return it, squeezing off rounds as I drag Iris toward the emergency stairwell door ten feet down the hall. Bullets chew into the wall beside us, spitting plaster and dust, and something burns across my shoulder but I don't stop, I keep moving, keep firing, until my hand hits the stairwell door and I slam through it, yanking Iris after me.
We're in. The door swings shut. I shove Iris toward the stairs.
"Go. Down. Don't stop."
She's staring at me, wide-eyed, breathless. "What's happening—"
"Go!"
She goes.
I turn back to the door, Glock up, waiting. Five seconds. Ten. The door doesn't open. No footsteps. No voices.
They're not following.
Why aren't they following?
I back toward the stairs, keeping the Glock trained on the door, and that's when I see it.
My wrist.
There's something on my wrist.
I look down.
A number. Glowing red, burned into my skin like a brand, sharp and bright and impossible to miss.
27.
I stare at it. Touch it. The skin's not burned. Doesn't hurt. The number just sits there, pulsing faintly, like a countdown on a digital clock.
Twenty-seven what?
The stairwell door explodes inward and I see the rifle barrel swinging toward me and I don't have time to think, I just raise the Glock and fire and the shooter fires and the world goes white and loud and I'm falling, tumbling backward down the stairs, Iris screaming somewhere above me, and my head cracks against concrete and—
—I'm standing in the elevator.
Doors closed.
No blood.
Iris three steps behind me.
My wrist burns.
I look down.
26.