We picked up speed, but by the time we reached where he'd stood, he was gone. Not merely out of sight—erased.
Michael cursed under his breath, his eyes scanning frantically, but it was useless. Elliot had blended back into the commotion, leaving nothing behind but the echo of his presence.
My adrenaline didn't fade. It curdled, thick and sour in my veins. We stood there for a beat too long, breathing hard, trying to see a shadow that was already gone.
The race didn't stop. The crowd surged, indifferent to the fact that a nightmare had brushed past them.
A whistle blew, sharp and jarring, snapping me back into the present. Marcus was already moving toward the water, oblivious to the fact that Elliot had been close enough to touch.
The crowd swallowed him as he jogged to the edge of the lake, sleek in his wetsuit, blending into a sea of athletes diving headlong into the churning water. His form grew smaller with each step until he was another body indistinguishable from the rest.
The earth tilted beneath me.
The noise rushed back in, a tidal wave of cheers, whistles, and the splashing, churning water. It was too much. Too loud. Too bright. My chest tightened, a fist squeezing around my ribs. Icouldn't catch my breath. It was shallow and forced, like sucking air through a straw that kept collapsing.
I stumbled back from the barricade, weaving through the crowd until I found a narrow space between two vendor tents. My legs gave out the second I hit the shadowed gap. I crouched, hands on my knees, forehead nearly touching the gritty pavement.
Breathe. Just fucking breathe.
My body didn't listen. My heart pounded against my ribs with pure, unadulterated fear. It wasn't the sharp, focused fear present in me when watching a firefight. It was closer to the helpless, drowning kind.
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes until I saw stars, trying to force it all back into a box. The static in my head wouldn't clear. Elliot's face—half-glimpsed, half-remembered—burned behind my eyelids like an afterimage I couldn't blink away.
Footsteps.
I flinched before I looked up.
Michael loomed over me, his shadow sharp in the morning light. His face was tight, the usual scowl softened just enough to make it worse. He didn't say anything at first—merely stood there, like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to pull me up or leave me in the dirt.
But it wasn't Michael who broke the silence.
"Hey." Marcus's voice.
I snapped my head up.
He was supposed to be swimming.
But there he was—dripping wet, his wetsuit peeled down to his waist, water streaming from his hair in rivulets. He must've doubled back, slipping out of the crowd of athletes unnoticed. His chest heaved from the effort, but his eyes locked on me with laser focus, cutting through everything else.
I tried to stand. My legs didn't cooperate. He didn't wait. Marcus crouched beside me, his hand gripping the back of my neck—not gentle, but grounding. Solid.
"Breathe," he said, his voice low, steady. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.
I did. I don't know how, but I did. My lungs burned as the air rushed in, shaky and uneven, but it wasthere.
His thumb pressed into the base of my skull, firm enough to anchor me.
After a beat, when my breathing wasn't jagged anymore, Marcus pulled back to look me in the eye.
"You're okay," he said softly.
I wasn't, but I nodded anyway.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then added, "I'm out of the official standings. Leaving the course like this disqualifies me." He shrugged like it didn't matter—because it didn't. "I don't care, but I've got to go. I want to finish."
There was no bitterness in his voice. No regret. Only the steady resolve of someone who knew precisely what mattered and what didn't.
I swallowed hard, grabbing his wrist before he could stand, fingers digging into wet skin. I didn't plan the words—they slipped out like blood from an open wound.
