The night didn't let up. Neither did their feet.
Every heartbeat was a war drum pounding in their chests, every inhale scraped like fire down their throats. Luke didn't know how long they'd been running anymore—only that if they faltered for even a breath, it would be over.
Dead.
Or worse.
The heavy footfalls behind had started to fade, only slightly—but just enough to dare a thought that maybe, maybe, they had a few seconds more. Not safety. Not even space. But a sliver of grace, carved out by nothing more than smoke and blind luck.
The smoke.
That damned smoke had done more than obscure their escape—it had slowed the monsters down. Even in their unnatural state, the abominations weren't entirely reckless. As fast as they were, they weren't mindless berserkers. Not quite. Luke realised it then—these creatures didn't charge straight through without care. They were cautious. Calculating. Especially when they couldn't see their footing.
