The cold pressed against Sable's spine like a knife held to skin—not cutting, just *there*, promising.
Ellaya was asleep. Finally. Curled on his coat like it was a blanket instead of bloodstained fabric that still smelled like the three men he'd killed. Second was perched on her shoulder, head tucked under one wing, the soft rise and fall of the bird's chest the only movement in their corner.
Sable sat with his back to the wall, knees drawn up, and stared at his hands.
They weren't shaking anymore.
That should have been good. Should have meant something. But all it meant was that his body had given up trying to warn him about danger because danger was just the default state now.
He flexed his fingers. Watched the tendons move under skin. Thought about the notification still burning in the back of his mind.
**[Bestowed Grace: Retrograde]**
**[Grace Effect: Rewind time by 1 minute upon experiencing genuine regret]**
One minute now. Not fifteen seconds.
The upgrade felt hollow. Like being told you could hold your breath for five minutes instead of three while someone held your head underwater.
*Can I do it manually?*
The thought had been circling for the past hour. Loop mechanics were one thing—triggered by regret, automatic, reactive. But if he could *control* it, if he could rewind at will…
That changed everything.
Sable closed his eyes. Focused. Tried to feel for the mechanism, the switch, the mental trigger that would let him grab time by the throat and *pull*.
Nothing.
He tried again. Visualized the moment rewinding. Imagined the cold inversion of reality, colors bleeding backward, sound sucking into silence.
Nothing.
*Come on.*
He pressed his palms against his eyes until phosphenes bloomed behind his lids. Tried to force it. Tried to *will* the Grace to activate.
Nothing happened.
The world stayed stubbornly linear. Time kept moving forward like it had every right to.
*Okay. Different approach.*
He dropped his hands. Looked at the sleeping girl and bird. Thought about regret.
Not hard to find.
Six years of it stacked up like corpses in his memory. Medical school dropout. Foster system failure. The kind of regrets that carved themselves into your bones and stayed there.
He thought about Marcus.
The time he fucked Marcus over.
Sable sat with that. Let the guilt press down. Let the regret fill his chest cavity like fluid in drowning lungs.
Felt the familiar cold burn of—
**[T I M E S H I F T]**
Reality inverted.
Colors bled white-to-black, black-to-white. Sound reversed, sucking backward. His stomach lurched, twisted, *dropped*—
And snapped back.
Sable gasped. He was still sitting. Same position. But something had *moved*. Not him. Not the world. Just… time. Slipped backward like a film reel jerking in reverse.
He looked around frantically.
Ellaya was still asleep. Second was still perched on her shoulder.
But Second's head position had changed. Slightly. The bird had been facing left. Now facing right.
*It worked.*
His heart hammered. He'd done it. Rewound time voluntarily. Not from dying, not from a fuck-up, just from *thinking* about regret.
*Do it again.*
He closed his eyes. Thought about Marcus. About the textbook. About six points and a dead friend and the cold calculation that had seemed so *necessary* at the time.
The regret was still there. Sharp. Real.
He reached for it. Tried to trigger the Grace again.
Nothing happened.
Sable's eyes opened. *What?*
He tried again. Same memory. Same guilt. Same regret pressing against his ribs like broken glass.
Nothing.
*Why isn't it—*
He cycled through other memories. His adoptive mother. The bathroom door locked for three hours while he and his father waited outside. The way she'd looked when they finally broke it down—eyes open, staring at nothing, the pills scattered on the tile like a spilled promise.
*"I'm sorry,"* the note had said. *"I tried."*
Regret flooded through him. Sharp. Visceral. The kind that made his throat close.
Nothing happened.
His adoptive father. The drinking. The yelling. The night the man's hand had connected with Sable's forehead hard enough to split skin and leave a scar that bisected his left eyebrow.
Regret. Guilt. Shame. All of it there, all of it *real*.
Time didn't move.
*What the fuck?*
Sable sat there, breathing hard, trying to understand. The Grace had worked once. Why not again? Same regrets. Same memories. Same—
*Oh.*
Understanding hit like cold water.
*They're old.*
All of them. Years old. Calcified. He'd lived with these regrets for so long they'd become part of his architecture. Load-bearing walls in the structure of his personality. He *knew* these regrets. Had made peace with them. Had justified them. Had told himself Marcus would have failed anyway, that his mother's death wasn't his fault, that his father's violence was just the Dredge grinding people down.
They were regrets, yes.
But they weren't *fresh*.
His mind jumped back to the loops. To the 138 times he'd died in the alley.
Every time the Grace had triggered, it was because of something *new*. Something he'd just fucked up. Something he *immediately* regretted.
*Shit, I should have killed Kade first.*
*Fuck, I shouldn't have led with my right.*
*No no no, wrong angle—*
Fresh regrets. Sharp. Immediate. Still bleeding.
*That's the trigger.*
The Grace didn't care about old wounds. It cared about *new* ones. About mistakes made in the moment. About decisions that were still raw enough to hurt when you prodded them.
Sable leaned his head back against the wall. Stared at the dark ceiling of the subway station.
*So I can't farm loops. Can't just think about sad shit and rewind whenever I want.*
*I can only go back when I fuck up. When I do something that makes me immediately, genuinely regret it.*
The limitation felt both obvious and devastating.
He sat there. Processing. His analytical mind already running scenarios, calculating what this meant for survival.
Across the platform, movement.
Sable's eyes opened fully. His right eye—the blue one—tracked automatically, cataloging details in the low light that his stolen Grace rendered perfectly visible.
Nash. Standing near the entrance with five others. All armed. All checking their weapons with the practiced efficiency of people who'd survived long enough to develop habits.
Preparing to leave.
Someone was setting up a radio near them. Old. Salvaged. The kind of equipment that shouldn't work but did because the Dredge taught you to make anything work.
Static crackled through the station.
Then a voice. Distorted but clear enough.
*"—repeat, emergency broadcast. Rain cycle concluded at 0347 hours. Blackwater division deploying to Lower City sectors for Torrent-born cleanup and survivor extraction. All citizens are advised to—"*
The broadcast cut out. Came back.
*"—second wave predicted in approximately nineteen hours. Evacuation protocols in effect. Blackwater teams will be marked with blue-seven identification. Do not approach unmarked—"*
Static swallowed the rest.
Nash was talking to his team. Low voices. Sable's enhanced hearing caught fragments.
"—two hours ago. They should be in this sector by now—"
"—if we can reach them—"
"—safer than waiting here—"
One of the women—older, grey-haired—shook her head. "We don't know if they're actually coming. Could be Upper City bullshit. Keep us calm while they seal the blast doors."
"They sent Bestowed," Nash said. His voice had the tone of someone trying to convince himself as much as others. "The Blackwater. That means something."
"Means they don't want the Torrent-borns spreading topside," another man muttered. "Doesn't mean they give a shit about us."
Nash's jaw tightened. "We're going. We find them, we get extracted. Simple."
*Simple*, Sable thought. *Right.*
He watched them check weapons. Watched Nash divide the group, assign positions. The man moved like someone who'd done this before. Led people. Made decisions that got them killed slower than staying put.
Malvric appeared from somewhere in the back of the station. Still wearing that wet black suit. Still looking like he'd stepped out of a Middle City office building instead of a warzone.
He approached Nash's group. "You're really doing this?"
"You're welcome to come," Nash said without looking at him.
"I'm not an idiot."
"Neither am I."
"Could've fooled me." Malvric's voice had lost all its practiced gentleness. Just cold assessment now. "You're heading topside to find Upper City Bestowed who may or may not exist, to beg for extraction they may or may not give, while Torrent-borns are still hunting. That's not survival. That's prayer with extra steps."
Nash turned. Met Malvric's eyes. "So what's your plan? Wait here? Hope nothing finds us?"
"Better odds than walking into the open."
"We're running out of food. Water. Medical supplies. You want to sit here for nineteen hours and hope we don't—"
"I want to sit here and not die," Malvric cut in. His voice stayed flat. Matter-of-fact. "You do what you need to do. I'm staying."
Nash stared at him for a long moment. Then nodded. "Fair enough."
He turned back to his team. "Everyone clear? We move fast. Stay together. See anything, call it out. We're not engaging unless—"
"Unless we have to," the grey-haired woman finished. "We know, Nash."
They headed for the stairs.
Sable watched them go. Counted them. Six people. Nash in front. Two women, three men. All carrying pipes or broken glass or improvised blades that would do exactly nothing against anything that mattered.
They disappeared up the stairwell.
The platform went quiet again.
Malvric stood there for a moment. Staring at the empty entrance. Then he turned and walked back into the crowd, already calculating, already planning whatever the fuck people like him planned when everything went to shit.
Sable looked away. Not his problem. He'd agreed to stay invisible. To not exist.
Time passed.
Sable couldn't track it. His internal clock was fucked from 138 loops of dying. Could have been twenty minutes. Could have been two hours. The chem-strips overhead hummed the same constant note. People murmured in low voices. Someone coughed. Someone else cried quietly.
Ellaya stirred. Her eyes opened slowly, confused, tracking the unfamiliar ceiling before memory caught up and her face tightened.
"Hey," Sable said quietly.
She looked at him. Brown eyes. Tired. Old in a way seven-year-olds shouldn't be.
"We're still here," he continued. "Still safe. For now."
Ellaya sat up slowly. Second launched from her shoulder to Sable's, chirping indignantly at being disturbed.
"I'm hungry," she said. Small voice.
"I know."
"And cold."
"I know."
She pulled her knees to her chest. Wrapped her arms around them. The grey dress was still damp, still filthy. She looked like a ghost of something that used to be a child.
Sable reached into his pocket. Pulled out the last protein bar from the ration Malvric had given them. Offered it.
Ellaya took it. Stared at it. Didn't open it.
"You should eat," Sable said.
"You haven't eaten."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
He was. His stomach felt like it was trying to digest itself. But she needed it more.
"Eat," he repeated.
Ellaya looked at him for a long moment. Then back at the bar. She opened it slowly, tore it in half, and offered one piece back.
"We share," she said. Final. Non-negotiable.
Something in Sable's chest tightened. He took the half. "Okay."
They ate in silence. Second hopped down to investigate crumbs, pecking at imaginary food with eternal optimism.
Ellaya watched the bird. Then looked up at Sable.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
She hesitated. Then: "Why are your eyes different colors?"
Sable blinked. Of all the questions—
"The left one is brown," she continued, tilting her head slightly, genuinely curious. "But the right one is… blue? Like ice."
"Yeah," Sable said. "I was born with it."
"Oh." She processed this. "Does it hurt?"
"No."
"Can you see different things with them?"
"No. They both work the same."
"Then why are they different?"
"I don't know. Genetics. Random chance. Some people are just born that way."
Ellaya nodded slowly. Then: "Kids at school used to say I was weird because I'm too pale. That I looked sick."
"Kids are assholes."
She laughed. Small. Surprised. Like she hadn't expected him to say that.
"When I was your age," Sable said, not sure why he was talking but unable to stop, "a kid in my class threw a pen at my face. Aimed right for my blue eye. Said maybe I was a Torrent-born pretending to be human."
Ellaya's eyes widened. "That's mean."
"Yeah."
"What did you do?"
"Threw it back. Harder."
She smiled. Tiny. Fleeting. "Did you get in trouble?"
"Yes."
"Was it worth it?"
Sable thought about it. About the satisfaction of watching the pen hit the kid's forehead. About the week of detention. About the way no one threw anything at him after that.
"Yes," he said.
Ellaya nodded. Like this made sense. Like violence as response was just how the world worked.
Because down here, it was.
"My mother used to say—" Ellaya started, then stopped. Her face crumpled slightly. "My mother *said* that eyes don't lie. That you can tell if someone's good or bad by looking at their eyes."
Sable's jaw tightened. He looked away. At the far wall. At nothing.
"My mother said that too," he said quietly.
"Really?"
"Yeah." His voice came out flat. "She said I had beautiful eyes. That they couldn't lie."
Ellaya smiled. "That's nice."
"No it's not."
The smile vanished. "What?"
Sable closed his eyes. Pressed his palms against them until colors bloomed.
"Her eyes were kind," he said. "Loving. Happy. Every time I looked at them, they told me everything was okay. That she was okay. That tomorrow would be better."
He dropped his hands.
"She was dead six weeks after the last time she said that."
Silence.
Ellaya stared at him. Processing. Trying to reconcile the words with the flatness of his delivery.
"How—" she started.
"Pills," Sable said. "Locked herself in the bathroom. Left a note that said 'I tried.' That was it. Two words."
He looked at her. Met her eyes. Made himself hold them even though everything in him wanted to look away.
"Her eyes lied every single day for six years. Said she was fine when she wasn't. Said she loved us when she couldn't anymore. Said tomorrow would be better when she'd already decided there wasn't going to be a tomorrow."
His throat tightened. He pushed through it.
"That's why I look at hands, Ellaya. Hands tell you what someone's about to do. If they're reaching for a weapon. If they're making a fist. If they're shaking because they're scared or because they're about to hurt you."
He gestured vaguely at the platform. At the people huddled in groups.
"Eyes just tell you what they want you to believe. Hands tell you the truth."
Ellaya looked at her own hands. Small. Pale. Still holding the protein bar wrapper.
"Your hands are shaking," she said quietly.
Sable looked down. She was right. Subtle tremor. Constant.
"Yeah," he said. "They do that now."
"Why?"
*Because I've died 138 times and my nervous system can't tell the difference between memory and reality anymore.*
"I don't know," he lied.
Ellaya nodded. Accepted it. Went back to watching Second hop around their corner like a tiny, feathered idiot.
"I like him," she said.
"Second?"
"Yeah. He's funny."
"He's a menace."
"He's brave."
Sable looked at the bird. At the crooked wing that would never quite work right. At the way Second kept trying anyway, kept flying even though every launch was a gamble.
"Yeah," Sable admitted. "He is."
Ellaya leaned against his shoulder. Carefully. Like she wasn't sure if it was allowed.
Sable didn't move away.
They sat like that for a while. Two broken things and a bird. Pretending this was safety.
Then the screaming started.
-----
Not close. Distant. From the stairwell.
But getting closer.
Sable's head snapped up. His right eye—the blue one—tracked the sound automatically. His left eye—the brown one—just saw the entrance and knew.
*They're coming back.*
People on the platform noticed. Heads turning. Voices rising. The murmur building to panic.
Then the first body came tumbling down the stairs.
Not walking. *Tumbling*. Limp. Broken. Hit the platform and didn't move.
Then another.
Then Nash.
Two of his people were carrying him. Dragging him. Nash's left leg was gone below the knee. Just… gone. Severed clean. The stump was wrapped in someone's shirt, already soaked through, blood trailing behind them like a marker.
Nash's face was grey. Eyes unfocused. Shock. Blood loss. Dying.
The two carriers dropped him near the entrance and collapsed. One was missing an arm. The other had four parallel gashes across her chest, ribs visible through torn flesh.
The grey-haired woman from earlier stumbled down last, clutching her side, gasping. "It wasn't—it wasn't a Torrent-born—"
Across the platform, Malvric's head snapped toward the commotion.
Sable watched his face change. Watched the calculation happen in real-time. Eyes widening. Jaw tightening. Body already turning toward the back tunnels before his brain finished processing.
Smart.
Malvric didn't ask questions. Didn't try to help. Just moved. Fast. Heading for the maintenance shafts branching into darkness.
Others were catching on. The ones close to the entrance started backing away. Slowly at first. Then faster.
Someone screamed: "What happened? What did this?"
The grey-haired woman just kept shaking her head. "Not a monster. Not a monster. It was—"
Sable was already moving.
He grabbed Ellaya's shoulder, pulled her up. "We're leaving."
"What? Why—"
"Now."
Second launched to his shoulder, talons digging in. The bird's body was rigid. Tense. Every instinct screaming danger.
Sable pulled Ellaya toward the far side of the platform. Away from the entrance. Toward the maintenance tunnels where Malvric had disappeared.
"Wait—" Ellaya tried to look back. "Those people need help—"
"They're dead already."
"But—"
"They're *dead*," Sable repeated. His voice came out flat. Final. "Whatever did that is coming. We're not staying to meet it."
Behind them, the platform descended into chaos. People screaming. Running. Scattering like prey animals who'd just smelled wolf.
Sable spotted a massive industrial dumpster near the far wall. Old. Rusted. Big enough to hide behind.
He shoved Ellaya toward it. "Get behind there. Now."
"What about you—"
"I'll be right here." He crouched beside her. Pulled Second from his shoulder and pressed the bird into her hands. "Hold him. Keep him quiet."
Ellaya clutched the robin. Second didn't struggle. Didn't chirp. Just pressed against her chest and went very, very still.
Sable peered around the edge of the dumpster.
The platform had cleared. Everyone had scattered. Pressed against walls. Hidden behind pillars. Disappeared into the tunnels.
Smart ones were already gone. Only the slow or stupid remained visible.
Nash was still on the ground near the entrance. Still breathing. Barely. His eyes were open but unfocused. Looking at nothing.
The screaming had stopped.
The platform was silent except for Nash's wet, labored breathing and the sound of blood dripping onto concrete.
Then: footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Patient.
Not running. Not rushing. Just… walking.
The sound was wrong. Each step produced a wet *thud* that echoed through the station. Heavy. Too heavy. Like the weight was somehow *more* than physics should allow.
And underneath the thud: a metallic scraping. Like steel dragging against stone with each movement.
Sable's right eye tracked the entrance. His left eye noticed his hand moving involuntarily—reaching up, covering his brown eye, pressing against it like he was trying to push it back into his skull.
The footsteps got closer.
A shadow appeared at the top of the stairs.
Tall. Too tall. Backlit by the red emergency lights from above.
Then the figure descended.
Step.
*Thud.*
*Scrape.*
Step.
*Thud.*
*Scrape.*
Taking their time. Like they had forever. Like everyone in this station was already dead and just didn't know it yet.
The figure reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the green light of the chem-strips.
Sable stopped breathing.
It was a person. Human-shaped. Human-sized.
Wearing armor.
Not makeshift. Not scavenged. *Real* armor. Full plate. Deep, dark blue—almost black in the sickly green light. Seamless. Sleek. The kind of craftsmanship that didn't exist in the Dredge. The kind that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime.
Every surface was pristine. Not a scratch. Not a dent. Not a mark.
Except for the blood.
Fresh. Wet. Coating the armor in sheets. Dripping from gauntlets. Running down the breastplate in slow rivulets that caught the light and gleamed like oil.
The figure wore a closed helm. No face visible. Just smooth metal and a narrow horizontal slit where eyes should be. No breath misted from the gap. No condensation. No sign of life behind the metal.
In their right hand: a longsword.
Slender. Elegant. Almost delicate. Perfectly clean except for the blood running down its length.
And the blood was moving *wrong*.
Not dripping down toward the tip. Sliding *up* toward the hilt. Against gravity. Like the blood itself was trying to climb away from the blade.
The chem-strips overhead flickered.
Once.
Twice.
In the strobing light, Sable saw it: the air around the figure was *bending*. Subtle. Almost invisible. Like reality itself was flinching away from them.
The armored figure stopped.
Stood there.
Helmet sweeping slowly across the platform. Scanning. Methodical.
Looking for survivors.
Sable's entire body locked. Every cell screaming at him to run. To hide. To do *something*.
But his medical training was louder, forcing observations through the panic:
*Gait: measured, controlled. No fatigue. No hesitation.*
*Posture: perfect balance. Combat-trained. Professional.*
*Weapon handling: expert. Relaxed grip. Ready position.*
*Conclusion: not random violence. Execution.*
This wasn't a Torrent-born hunting for food.
This wasn't a survivor gone mad.
This was a person.
Trained. Equipped. Sent here with purpose.
*The Blackwater.*
The realization hit like ice water.
Upper City sent them. Bestowed division. "Cleanup and extraction."
But they weren't here to rescue anyone.
They were here to *clean up*.
Clean up what exactly?
Us?
The thought hit like a blade sliding between ribs. Sudden. Precise. Obvious in hindsight.
Is that why there are no Bestowed in the Lower Cities?
It's not that people here "don't reach the threshold."
It's not that the ones who awaken simply "move upward for a better life."
No.
They kill us.
They kill us before we have the leverage to become anything—
before a Dredge-born with a Grace becomes a problem they can't control.
That's the truth.
Not a lack of potential.
A culling.
The Dredge had always been expendable. This was just making it official.
Sable's hand pressed harder against his brown eye. The other eye—the blue one—kept watching. Kept cataloging. Kept trying to find a pattern, a weakness, *something*.
The armored figure took a step forward.
Nash was directly in front of them. Still breathing. Still alive. Barely.
The figure looked down at him.
Tilted their head. Slightly. Curious.
Nash's eyes focused. Just enough to see. To understand.
"Please," he whispered. Blood bubbled at his lips. "Please—"
The sword came down.
Not fast. Not violent.
Just… precise.
One clean motion. Vertical. Through the sternum.
Nash's body jerked once. Then went still.
The figure stood there. Looking down at the corpse. Like they were confirming completion. Checking off a list.
Then they pulled the sword free.
The blade came out clean. The blood that had been on it was gone. Absorbed. Consumed.
*What the fuck—*
The figure started walking again.
Step. *Thud.* *Scrape.*
Across the platform. Methodical. Patient.
They walked past a pillar.
There was a man hiding behind it. Pressed flat. Trying so hard not to breathe.
The figure didn't look.
Didn't slow.
Just walked past.
Took three more steps.
Then moved.
There was no wind-up. No telegraph. No preparation.
One moment: walking forward, sword at rest.
Next moment: the man behind the pillar was collapsing, throat opened in a perfect horizontal line.
Sable's blue eye couldn't track the movement. His brain tried to process—*acceleration, velocity, reaction time*—but the numbers didn't work. The distance was wrong. The speed was impossible.
Human bodies didn't move like that.
But it had happened.
The figure was back in walking position. Moving forward. Like they'd never stopped.
Behind them, the man's body hit the ground. Blood spraying. Arterial. He'd be dead in seconds.
Sable's hand was shaking against his eye. His other hand found the edge of the dumpster. Gripped it. Anchoring himself to reality because reality was fracturing at the edges.
The figure kept walking.
Found another survivor. Woman crouched behind debris. Shaking. Crying silently.
Walked past her.
Five steps.
Then moved again.
Same impossible speed. Same perfect precision.
The woman's head separated from her shoulders before she could scream.
Pattern recognition kicked in through Sable's panic:
*They're not hunting by sight. They're tracking something else. Movement? Sound? Heat?*
*They walk past. Then strike. Why?*
*Because they already know where everyone is. They're just taking their time. Savoring it.*
Another person died. Then another.
The figure was working their way through the platform. Left to right. Systematic. Thorough.
Getting closer to the dumpster.
Sable's mind raced. His blue eye calculating. His brown eye just screaming.
*If we run, they'll see us. Track us. Kill us.*
*If we stay, they'll reach us eventually. Kill us.*
*There's no winning move.*
Beside him, Ellaya was frozen. Eyes wide. Staring through the gap beneath the dumpster at the carnage beyond. Watching people die.
Second was pressed against her chest. The bird's eyes were open. Fixed on the armored figure. Unblinking.
And something about Second's stare was wrong.
Too focused. Too *aware*.
The bird wasn't panicking. Wasn't trying to escape.
Just… watching.
Like it was waiting for something.
The armored figure killed two more people.
Ten dead now. Maybe more. Sable had lost count.
They were fifteen meters away from the dumpster.
Then ten.
Then five.
The footsteps were deafening now. Each *thud* reverberated through Sable's bones. Each *scrape* of metal on stone felt like it was inside his skull.
Sable's hand found Ellaya's mouth. Covered it. Gentle but firm.
She didn't fight. Just pressed back against the wall. Second crushed between them.
The footsteps got closer.
Three meters.
Two.
Sable closed his eyes. Both of them. Brown and blue. Pressed them shut so hard his skull ached.
*This is it.*
*This is how it ends.*
*Not fighting. Not heroic. Just executed in a corner like an animal.*
The footsteps stopped.
Right in front of the dumpster.
Silence.
Sable could hear his own heartbeat. Could hear Ellaya's. Could hear Second's tiny, rapid pulse through his chest.
Could hear the wet drip of blood falling from the armored figure's sword onto concrete.
*Drip.*
*Drip.*
*Drip.*
Then: footsteps.
Walking away.
Past the dumpster.
Toward someone else.
The wet sound of steel cutting flesh.
A body hitting the ground.
Sable opened his eyes. His vision was swimming. Couldn't tell if it was tears or shock or his brain just giving up.
Ellaya was looking at him. Brown eyes. Terrified.
She wasn't asking questions. Wasn't demanding answers.
Just looking. Seeing his fear. Understanding that he had no plan. No solution. No way to fix this.
They were going to die here.
Not yet. But soon.
When their turn came up in whatever order the figure was following.
The figure killed three more people.
Fifteen dead. Twenty. Sable stopped counting.
His mind was fragmenting. Medical training warring with survival instinct. Blue eye cataloging every death in clinical detail. Brown eye just seeing blood and accepting the inevitable.
*I should have run sooner.*
*Should have grabbed them faster.*
*Should have seen this coming and—*
Regret flooded through him. Sharp. Fresh. Immediate.
Not old wounds. New ones.
*I fucked up. We're going to die because I fucked up.*
[T I M E S H I F T]
Reality inverted—
-----