Phei ran.
Not the cautious, measured lope of someone who'd ever bothered to learn what a warm-up was, nor the pathetic shuffle of a man who treated every outing like a negotiation with mortality. No. He tore forward in a flat-out sprint that should have ended in catastrophe five strides ago.
His legs blurred beneath him, hammering the pavement with the reckless enthusiasm usually seen in people who've just discovered free cocaine or realised the building behind them is on fire. Air knifed into his chest in great, greedy gulps, yet his lungs refused to stage their customary revolt.
No burning, no ragged desperation, no wet rattle of impending collapse.
His lungs felt fine. Better than fine. They felt like they'd been upgraded to some premium model that came with a lifetime warranty and a personal apology from universe for the previous seventeen years of substandard breathing equipment.
