Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
We hit a landing. He pauses, ear cocked toward the stairwell above. Far away there's a voice echoing. It’s getting closer.
“Time to improvise,” he whispers, eyes glinting with the same manic glee I imagine serial killers have right before they drop the punchline.
I snort despite myself. “Improvise? Your plan was ‘mohawk and good manners.’ We’re already improvising.”
“Exactly. I’m a natural.” He flashes that grin again, then yanks me toward a side door marked ‘Utility—Authorized Personnel Only.’ “After you.”
“Again with the door thing?”
“Habit. Sue me.”
I shove through first this time, because if we’re dying, I’m not doing it on ceremony. The corridor beyond is narrow, pipes dripping, fluorescent buzz overhead like dying bees. Perfect murder-scene aesthetic.
Behind us, footsteps pound closer.
Ozzy’s hand tightens on mine. “Ready to run like hell?”
I meet his eyes. They’re wild and alive. It’s stupidly reassuring. “Born ready. But if we survive this, you owe me an explanation for the hair.”
“Deal. And coffee. My treat.”
“Make it a latte and we have a deal.”
We keep running. We keep sprinting like our lives depend on it. Well, because they do. They so fucking do.
Ozzy glances at me. “You okay?”
My lungs burn and my heart is trying to punch through my ribs like it wants out too. I’m basically running on zero calories. My throat screams for water. At this point, I’d take anything wet. “I’m having a great time,” I whisper. “Five stars. Would not recommend.”
His mouth twitches. It’s not a full smile—more like he’s fighting it, like he’s trying to be the kind of rescuer who doesn’t joke. Which is adorable. Wrong vibe for him. “Stay close,” he murmurs.
“I am literally attached to you,” I whisper back, lifting our joined hands. “I’m basically your emotional support hostage.”
That earns me a real laugh—silent, quick, and bright in his eyes. Okay. Good. He’s human. He’s also insane, because we’re approaching a door with a keypad and he’s pulling me toward it like he owns the place. And then he does something even more insane. He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a small device. He sticks it onto the keypad.
I stare. “Oh,” I whisper. “You’re one of those.”
“One of what?” he asks, focused.
“One of those men who think the answer to everything is ‘crime.’”
He glances at me, deadpan. “It’s working, isn’t it?”
“It’s going to beep,” I hiss. “Keypads always beep. It’s literally their job.”
“It’s a silent—”
The keypad beeps. A loud, cheerful beep, like it’s thrilled to announce to the entire floor that someone is doing something unauthorized.
All three of us freeze.
“Fuck,” Arrow whispers.
My heart pounds loudly behind my eardrums. Somewhere down the hall, a voice rises.
“What was that?” I ask.
Ozzy’s eyes cut to mine. “You said it would beep,” he whispers, sounding offended. Like I manifested the beep through pure negativity.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper back. “I didn’t realize you wanted me to lie.”
He swears under his breath and grabs the handle, pulling. It’s locked. He shifts his weight like he’s about to do something dramatic—like he’s about to kick the door down, shoulder-first, action-movie style.
I tighten my grip on his hand and yank him back. “Absolutely not.”
His head snaps toward me. “We don’t have time—”
“You do not get to concuss yourself in a hallway like a handsome idiot,” I whisper furiously.
He blinks. “Did you just call me handsome?”
Of course that’s the thing he focuses on. “We’re not addressing that,” I hiss. “Move.”
He looks like he’s about to argue, but I step in closer to the door, lowering my voice even more. “Listen,” I say, “I’ve been in this building for weeks. They don’t use brute force. They use codes. They use patterns. They use lazy people who don’t want to remember twelve different passwords.”
Ozzy watches me like he’s trying to decide if I’m about to save us or get us killed. That’s fair. My track record is… unclear.
I focus on the keypad. It’s a standard four-digit access, but the sticker residue around the bottom corner tells me something used to be there. People love writing codes on tiny labels like the universe won’t punish them for it. I search the metal frame. There—faint marker smudges. They clean it often. But not often enough.
I squint. “Nine… two…”
Ozzy leans in. “Are you guessing?”
“I’m reading,” I whisper. “There’s a difference.”
Footsteps approach. Fast. My heart hammers louder and I wonder if Ozzy and Arrow can hear it. Or maybe they’re own hearts are pounding just as loudly. Ozzy shifts, body angling in front of me instinctively, shielding. It hits me, this visceral little jolt of safety and annoyance. Like, sir, I appreciate your protective instincts. But also, move your biceps, I’m busy.
“Eight… one,” I finish. I punch in 9281, and the lock clicks.
Ozzy’s eyebrows lift.
I shove the door open with a look that says who’s concussing themselves now?
He exhales something like a laugh. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Respect.”