The cold air above ground hit Emily like a slap to the face.
After hours — maybe days — breathing the recycled, dust-clogged air of the Ironhold, the sting of night was both a shock and a blessing.
Her lungs ached, her muscles trembled, and every scrape, bruise, and burn sang with the sharpness of survival.
They'd made it out — for now.
Lena stumbled beside her, coughing hard enough to double over, hands on her knees.
Her rifle clattered to the ground, its barrel smeared with soot and blood.
Marcel leaned heavily against a twisted piece of rebar jutting from the rubble, his right arm cradled to his chest, blood leaking between his fingers.
The remains of the Ironhold smoldered behind them, collapsed into a charred pit, flames still licking at the sky in flickering bursts.
