I’m already running when the street changes its mind.
The man in the grey coat stumbles, recovers too fast, and straightens like something snapping into place. His eyes empty. His hand comes up.
Gunshot.
I don’t think. I move — sideways, wrong, feet skidding where they shouldn’t hold. The bullet chews brick where my head was meant to be.
She collides with me out of nowhere, grips my sleeve. “That way,” she says, already moving.
Another shot. Glass explodes behind us. We run.
We cut through an alley. Fire escape. Drop. I land badly, don’t fall. She glances back mid-stride, just long enough.
“That dodge,” she says. Not impressed. Curious.
Sirens swell. Footsteps hit pavement, too even, too precise.
She keeps running, but she’s watching me now.
“Yeah,” she mutters. “I thought so.”