'I told you to take it slow, you fucking idiot.' Ophilia's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and corrosive, as Jagger's boots slammed against the concrete. Each step echoed far too loudly in the dead city, his presence practically announced with every stride.
"Oh, pipe down," Jagger shot back between ragged breaths, though the strain in his voice betrayed him. His lungs burned, dragging in cold air that scraped his throat raw. His muscles ached, heavy and tightening with every push forward, but he forced himself to keep moving. He veered around a rusted garbage bin, his shoulder barely missing its edge as he cut the corner.
A split second later, the world behind him exploded with sound.
The garbage bin slammed into the wall with a deafening crash, metal crumpling inward like paper. The impact echoed violently down the empty street, shattering the fragile silence. Jagger didn't slow. Didn't hesitate. He just kept running.
"Fuck."
He glanced back.
