"Move," Vansh hissed, grabbing Pearl's wrist and pulling her toward the back exit of the train car.
She didn't resist.
The look in his eyes wasn't anger or guilt anymore — it was instinct. Survival.
They burst into the open night, the rain hitting like a thousand tiny needles, soaking them within seconds. Vansh grip on her wrist was tight but not painful — just anchoring.
Behind them, shadows moved — quick, quiet, practiced.
"Who is it?" Pearl yelled over the downpour.
"I don't know," Vansh shouted back, scanning rooftops and alleyways, "but they're not amateurs."
They ducked into an abandoned corridor beside the school. Rain poured down the rusted metal awning. Pearl pressed her back against the wall, chest heaving.
Her hand still gripped the gun — her first weapon, her first choice.
Vansh stood in front of her, dripping and silent, eyes darting toward the corner they came from.
Then his gaze dropped to her. And lingered.
"You okay?" he asked, voice low.
"No," she snapped, "I'm soaked, I just found out you lit the match that ruined my life, and now someone's trying to kill me. So no, I'm not okay."
He blinked once. "Fair."
She was shaking — not from fear anymore, but adrenaline.
"I hate this," she whispered, "but I hate not knowing even more."
Vansh stepped closer. The space between them shrank until there was barely a breath left.
"I'm going to keep you alive, Pearl. Even if you hate me every step of the way."
"I already do," she whispered.
But she didn't pull away.
Not even when his fingers brushed hers, gently lowering the gun in her hand.
Not even when he leaned in, voice brushing her ear like a secret:
"You say you hate me… but you haven't stopped looking at me."
Pearl's breath caught.
Just as their lips almost met—Another noise.
A footstep. Close. Too close.
Vansh snapped around, gun raised. "We're not alone."