Adrenaline blinds you to pain when you’re fighting to breathe.
But as I limp farther from the crash, weaving through twisted metal and half-dead trees, the fire grows sharper.
Hot and deep and ugly.
I glance down.
Blood.
Dark and heavy, soaking through the side of my shirt.
The shot from the crash—or maybe shrapnel—must’ve caught me worse than I thought.
Every step pulls at it. Every breath is a goddamn battle.
I slow down, pressing a hand hard against the wound.
It’s a mistake.
Standing still.
Thinking.
Because the second I pause, the second my brain catches up, the truth lands hard:
This was never about the cargo.
Never about the money.
It’s a setup.
Has been from the start.
Glimner. The easy offer. The no-names contract.
All of it designed to lure me back here.
Back where they could finally kill me clean.
I curse under my breath, eyes scanning the ruins around me.
Could still cut and run.
Could still find a sewer entrance, a tunnel, a path to vanish down.
But the perimeter’s closing fast.
Engines growl.
Boots thud.
The noose tightens.
I reach for my sidearm, breathing hard, ready to make them work for it.
When a shadow drops into the road ahead of me.
Quick.
