We didn't stop moving.
Not when our lungs clawed at the inside of our ribs for air. Not when every footfall sent fresh pain ricocheting through our bones. Not even when the corridors grew darker—when the overhead lights dimmed to a faint, flickering pulse, like the heartbeat of some dying machine that no longer remembered what it meant to keep people alive.
Camille sagged deeper into Sienna's side with every step. Her feet scuffed across the linoleum, more dragged than walked, painting a quiet, staggered trail behind us—one that any half-conscious tracker could follow. And someone would.
Eventually.
Alexis glanced over her shoulder, breath hitching in shallow bursts. "We need to rest soon," she murmured, barely louder than a thought. Her eyes rapidly looking at us as she checked vitals or motion scans or whatever data only she could access. Even her voice had gone hoarse with tension.
