Thomas was tired. He was tired of running, he was tired of fighting, and most of all he was tired of getting his ass handed to him.
The further he went, the more his muscles ached from the relentless pace, but he didn't dare slow down. They didn't have time.
As he rounded a corner, Thomas skidded to a halt and pressed himself flat against the wall. His heart raced as he peeked around the edge.
Several men in black suits roamed the floor, their faces obscured by sleek black masks, each carrying a pistol. They moved methodically, scanning every room, checking every corner.
Thomas slowed his breathing, forcing himself to think. His hand instinctively reached for the sword that wasn't there, reminding him of his lack of weapons. He cursed under his breath, knowing he'd have to improvise. His eyes narrowed as one of the masked men drew closer, his footsteps slow and cautious.
Now or never.
Thomas waited until the man was just close enough before he acted. In a swift motion, praying he wouldn't mess it up, Thomas grabbed the man from behind, covering his mouth with one hand while kicking out his leg.
The man grunted as his leg snapped under the force, collapsing into Thomas's grip. Without hesitation, Thomas took the man's pistol and, gritting his teeth, fired one shot into the man's abdomen. The muffled shot echoed through the hallway, and Thomas shoved the man's limp body to the ground.
I hope that didn't kill him... but I don't have time to think about it now.
Thomas glanced at the pistol in his hand. It felt unfamiliar, heavy, and awkward. He was no marksman—he'd always been a terrible shot, even during training. Still, it was the only weapon he had.
Hearing more footsteps approaching, Thomas raised the gun, aiming for the other masked men further down the hallway. His first shot missed, whizzing past one of the men and embedding itself into the wall.
He cursed under his breath, squeezing the trigger again, but his aim was erratic. The men noticed the shots, immediately reacting with a barrage of gunfire in his direction.
This isn't working.
Panicked, Thomas bolted down another hallway, weaving between rooms as bullets whizzed past his head. He ducked into a side room, closing the door softly behind him.
He scanned the area quickly, noting a strategic hiding spot behind a row of filing cabinets where he could ambush anyone who came through the door.
Seconds later, one of the masked men entered, his gun raised. Thomas didn't hesitate. He aimed carefully this time, waiting until the man was directly in front of him before pulling the trigger. The shot landed clean, taking the man down. Thomas exhaled sharply, moving to reposition himself as more footsteps approached.
The second man burst through the door, gun blazing. Thomas ducked behind a desk, feeling the bullets tear through the wood just inches above his head. He fired back blindly, trying to keep them at bay. The men were becoming cautious now, their movements more careful as they attempted to flank him.
Thomas grabbed the body of the first man he'd shot, using it as a makeshift shield as he bolted through the room. More gunfire erupted, bullets thudding into the corpse as he sprinted down another hallway, still clutching the stolen pistol.
These guys are even worse than the ones we fought at Mason's manor.
His mind reeled, fractured images of what had just happened searing into his thoughts—the look of shock on the guard's face, the way he stumbled, the final, terrible stillness. He was aware, painfully aware, that a man had just died because of him.
More than that—he had killed someone.
Flimsy idealism. That's what Claire had called it. If Thomas' code could be broken so easily, what did that say about him. What did that say about his purpose, the reason he came here. What did that say about...
His ideals, the very values he'd clung to so fiercely, were crumbling like sand.
He clenched his jaw, the acidic sting of shame burning in his chest.
This wasn't what he wanted. But that man's death, Margarett's death—they weren't just failures. They were consequences, born of his own rigid beliefs. He felt his fingers tremble as he pressed against the wall, steadying himself.
With a final, steadying breath, he forced himself forward. There would be time for regret later—if he made it out alive. For now, all he could do was press on, his old self left behind, shattered and forgotten.
He ducked into yet another room, his eyes scanning quickly for anything useful. Then he spotted it—a pair of shoes sticking out from behind a desk, poorly hidden in a hasty attempt at concealment.
Thomas's eyes narrowed, and he approached the desk cautiously. He crouched low and, in one swift motion, kicked the figure hiding underneath. A man yelped, his head snapping up as he raised his hands in surrender.
Harrison Stager.
Thomas raised his gun, more out of reflex than intent.
Stager: Wait, wait, don't shoot!
Stager's voice wavered, his hands trembling as he peeked up over the desk.
Thomas couldn't help but laugh, lowering the gun slightly.
Thomas: Call this hiding do you?
Stager huffed indignantly, his face twisted into a mix of fear and annoyance.
Stager: What the hell are you doing, barging in like that?! You could have killed me!
Thomas: Yeah, well, if you keep sitting here, someone else definitely will.
He grabbed Stager by the arm and hauled him to his feet.
Thomas: We don't have time for this. You're gonna follow me, got it?
Stager grumbled, clearly not thrilled by the situation.
Stager: I don't need some child dragging me around! Unhand me now, do you have any idea who I am?
Thomas ignored the attitude, pulling Stager toward the door.
The two sprinted through the office, weaving through cubicles. Thomas peeked around corners, avoiding another group of masked men patrolling the floor.
They finally slipped into the stairwell, Thomas pushing the door closed as quietly as possible behind them.
Stager: What on earth is going on? Who's attacking us?!
Thomas once again ignored Stager's barrage of questions, focusing on his next move. They hurried down the stairwell, their footsteps bouncing off the concrete walls. But just as they rounded the next flight of stairs, Thomas froze.
The sound of footsteps echoed from below—multiple voices, getting louder by the second.
More of them. Shit.
Thomas grabbed Stager's arm, pulling him back up the stairs instead.
Thomas: Change of plans. We're heading up.
Stager groaned in frustration, his face red with exertion.
Stager: The roof? Are you insane?!
Thomas shot him a glare, not in the mood for more complaints.
