The corridor didn't empty so much as it compressed.
Bodies didn't stop coming just because people started dying. If anything, the knowledge that death was certain made them move faster, harder, more desperately. Panic layered on panic until the Sanctuary became a living thing trying to shed its own skin.
Lachlan cut through it.
Not rushing. Not slowing. Just moving with intent while the world disintegrated around him.
Someone grabbed at his arm. He tore free without looking. Another stumbled into his path and he shoved them aside hard enough that they cracked against the wall and slid down bonelessly.
He didn't check if they were breathing. He didn't need to. It was clear that they were dead.
Zubair moved like a pressure system collapsing in on itself. Heat rippled off him in tight, contained waves that blistered skin and warped air. He didn't flare. He didn't explode. He compressed the very air around him, and anything that got too close paid for it.
