Enzo's POV
The tight lane is unnaturally silent now, the aftermath of our escape leaving a heavy strain in the air. Blood smears the ground, and the stink of gunpowder remains. My body is a jumble of pains, every breath a reminder of how near we were to the end. But we're still standing. For now.
I gaze at Emilia, her chest rising and falling with rapid, weak breaths. There's a fire in her eyes—rage, determination, fear—all of it blended into one searing look. She's fatigued, but she won't let it show. Not here. Not now.
"We need to move," Vincent adds, his voice breaking through the quiet. He wipes blood from a cut on his forehead, yet his stare remains fixed, unwavering. "They'll be on our trail."
"Let them come," I say, the words pouring out before I can stop them. I'm weary of fleeing, tired of feeling like prey. But I know it's not that simple. Nothing ever is.
