Chum

I don't look back. I just run, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my heart slamming against my ribs. I have to get out of here. I have to find a way out, before he recovers, before he comes after me.

But this is Crescent's back rooms. A twisting labyrinth of hallways and locked doors, with no clear exit. I'm lost, disoriented, my sense of direction completely shot by the surge of adrenaline pumping through me.

Then I'm running, my feet slapping against the tile floor. I don't know where I'm going, but anywhere has to be better than here. My arm is on fire, each step sending a fresh jolt of pain through me. I risk a glance down and immediately wish I hadn't. There's a deep gouge carved across my bicep, blood flowing freely down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

The coppery scent of my own blood is heavy in my nostrils as I run, adding to my disorientation. But it's not just my own blood I can smell. There are other scents too, other people's blood, drifting on the air currents. Clubgoers who've partied too hard, maybe cut themselves on a broken glass. Employees who've nicked themselves shaving, or caught their finger in a door. Women on their periods, their scent faint but distinct among the sweat and smoke and spilled alcohol.

I latch onto those scents like a lifeline, using them as a guide through the maze of hallways. If I can just get back to the main club, I can lose myself in the crowd, slip out before Mudslide catches up to me.

But it's not going to be easy. I can hear him behind me, his footsteps heavy and uneven, punctuated by the wet sound of melting brick and shattering tile as he uses his powers to charge straight through the walls. He's not even bothering with doors anymore, just smashing through anything in his path like a human wrecking ball.

And he's gaining on me. I can hear him getting closer, his breath ragged with fury, his voice rising in a wordless howl of rage. He gets to cheat the labyrinth.

I push myself harder, ignoring the burning in my lungs and the throbbing in my arm. I have to be faster. I have to be smarter. I duck and weave, taking sudden turns and doubling back on myself, trying to confuse his sense of direction. At one point, I even consider climbing into the ceiling, but quickly dismiss the idea. Too risky, too time-consuming. And besides, with my injured arm, I'm not sure I could even manage it.

I follow the scent, moving as fast as I dare. The sound of destruction is getting closer, Mudslide's enraged shouts growing louder with each passing second. I turn another corner and nearly sob with relief when I see a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. The pulsing beat of the club's music is audible now, growing louder as I approach.

I burst back into the main club. The pounding music and flashing lights are almost overwhelming after the muffled quiet of the back rooms, but I don't let it slow me down. I plunge into the crowd, letting the mass of writhing bodies close around me, concealing me from view.

I keep moving, keeping my head down, trying to blend in. I can feel eyes on me, curious glances and speculative looks as people take in my disheveled appearance, my torn and bloodied clothes. The sudden assault of noise and flashing lights is disorienting after the relative quiet of the back hallways. For a moment, I just stand there, blinking stupidly as sweaty bodies jostle around me. I, somewhat distantly, hear someone asking me if I'm okay.

I wave them off. I'll be fine.

I make it to the edge of the dance floor, scanning the room frantically. Where's Connor? I need to find him, need to tell him what happened. But the club is packed, bodies everywhere. Even someone as tall as Connor would be hard to spot in this chaos.

A flash of movement near the entrance catches my eye. It's Mudslide, shoving his way through the crowd. His face is red and swollen from the mace, his eyes wild as they sweep the room. Searching for me.

Fuck. No time for Connor. I need to go, now.

I bolt for the exit, not caring who I bump into along the way. I hear shouts of annoyance behind me, but I don't stop. Can't stop. Not until I'm far, far away from here.

I burst out onto the street, the cool night air a shock after the stuffy heat of the club. Without breaking stride, I start ripping at my clothes, tearing strips off my already ruined shirt. I wind them around my arm as I run, trying to staunch the bleeding.

I duck into the first alley I see, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My legs feel like jelly, adrenaline fading and leaving exhaustion in its wake. I lean against the grimy brick wall, sliding down until I'm sitting on the damp pavement.

Holy shit. I made it. I actually made it out.

I reach up to tap my earpiece, desperate to hear Jordan's voice. But my fingers touch only bare skin. The earpiece. Fuck. I must have dropped it during the fight with Mudslide. No, wait, he took it, remember? You never got it back, Small.

First things first. I need to stop this bleeding. I look down at my makeshift bandage, already soaked through with blood. It's not enough. I need something more substantial. I use my claws, still out, to rip up my shirt until I'm in nothing but the wifebeater underneath, and then fish out my mini-mini first aid kit from the bottom of my purse, which still smells faintly of mace.

I breathe through my mouth, not my nose. Just in case someone walks by and gets curious. As I start treating my wound with shaking hands, I try to take stock of the situation.

The good news: I'm alive. I got out. And I managed to plant most of the bugs before everything went to shit.

The bad news: Pretty much everything else. Mudslide recognized me, which means the Kingdom knows we're onto them. I lost my earpiece, which means I have no way to contact Jordan or the others. I'm injured, alone, and in the middle of enemy territory.

And Connor… God, I hope he's okay. I hope Mudslide was too focused on me to go after him.

I finish bandaging my arm as best I can with the limited supplies I have. It's not pretty, but it'll hold for now. I struggle to my feet, wincing at the pain that shoots through my shoulder.

I need to get home. I need to contact the team, let them know what happened. But first, I need to make sure I wasn't followed.

I peek out of the alley, scanning the street. No sign of Mudslide or any other Kingdom goons. But that doesn't mean they're not out there, searching for me.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. Time to move. I can't stay here forever.

The Music Hall looms before me, its weathered brick facade a welcome sight after the chaos of the night. I stumble up the steps, my arm throbbing with each movement. The door swings open before I can even reach for it, Jordan's worried face appearing in the gap.

"Sam! Jesus Christ, are you okay?" They grab my uninjured arm, pulling me inside. "We've been freaking out. What the hell happened?"

I open my mouth to respond, but the words stick in my throat. Now that I'm here, safe, the adrenaline is fading fast, leaving me shaky and exhausted. "Connor," I manage to croak out. "Is he okay?"

Jordan's eyebrows shoot up. "Connor? Yeah, he's fine. We asked him to start some shit when you went radio silent. But as soon as he saw Mudslide, he bolted. Smart move, really. Anyway, what happened to you?"

Before I can answer, Tasha appears behind Jordan, her eyes widening as she takes in my appearance. "Sam! Oh my god, your arm!"

I glance down at my makeshift bandage, now soaked through with blood. "Yeah," I say weakly. "It's, uh, been a rough night."

Tasha ushers me inside, her mother's nurse instincts clearly kicking in. "Let's get you cleaned up. That wound looks nasty."

As we move into the main room, I spot Maggie sitting on one of the old theater seats, her legs swinging nervously. She jumps up when she sees me, her face pale. "Sam! Are you okay? What happened?"

I manage a weak smile. "I'm fine, Mags. Just a little banged up."

Tasha guides me to a chair, already pulling out a first aid kit of higher quality than my emergency one. She carefully peels away my blood-soaked bandages, her expression growing more concerned as she examines the wound. "This is a deep laceration," she says, her voice slipping into what I've come to think of as her 'nurse mode'. "It looks like it's torn through the fascia and into the muscle tissue. You're lucky it didn't hit any major blood vessels."

I wince as she starts cleaning the wound. "Yeah, well, I guess my luck had to hold out somewhere."

Jordan hovers nearby, their face a mix of concern and curiosity. "So what happened? Did you get made?"

I nod, hissing as Tasha applies antiseptic to the wound. "Yeah. Mudslide recognized me. Don't ask me how, but he did. Things got… messy."

As Tasha works on my arm, I give them a quick rundown of what happened. The confrontation with Mudslide, my failed bluff, the desperate escape. By the time I finish, Tasha is already stitching up my arm, her movements quick and efficient.

"Jesus," Jordan breathes. "That's… fuck, Sam. I'm sorry. We should've had a better exit strategy."

I shake my head. "Not your fault. We couldn't have known Mudslide would be there."

Maggie pipes up, her voice small. "But you got out. That's the important thing, right?"

I manage a smile for her. "Yeah, Mags. I got out."