The screwdriver was in my hand. The house was still on fire.
Miasma breathed off the roof in thin, dirty threads. They settled along the places my body liked to move, the way a cat settles on the one shirt you actually need to wear. The brass ribs of the tower framed a pale, fake sky that fooled nobody. The Archduke didn't rush. He closed the space around me like a craftsman closing a box—one neat, perfect side at a time. A veil sagged across my favorite entry point. An after-blade of solid miasma settled a hand's width behind my shoulder, as patient as gossip.
He spoke, his voice quiet as someone giving advice to a friend they were about to execute. "No breath shall steady."
