Escape

The vehicle stopped moving eleven minutes ago. You know because you counted — something to do while the pain settled and the rain came down hard enough to blur the windows.

The agents in the front aren't unconscious. They're just gone. It happened fast — quiet, efficient — and then someone dragged them out into the dark.

Now two figures stand in the road.

One is crouched at your window. He's been there almost a full minute — dark eyes moving across your face, your wrists, the zip ties on the door handle, and back to your face again. Angular and very still. Close-cropped hair. Sharp jaw. The stillness of him is wrong in a way you can't quite name. Too precise. Too patient.

The other stands further back, broader through the shoulders, a glossy black leather jacket catching the distant streetlight. He watches the tree line like something that has decided it's the most dangerous thing on this road and is waiting to be proven wrong.

The one at the window tilts his head.

"Chan." Quiet. Carries anyway. "Come here."

The broader one turns. Moves toward the vehicle with a weight that makes the wet asphalt feel smaller. He stops beside the crouching one. Looks in through the rain-streaked glass.

Something crosses his face — brief, unreadable.

"They're hurt." Not a question.

"I know." The one at the window still hasn't looked away from you. "I can smell something else, too."

His eyes hold yours through the glass, patient and unblinking.

"Whatever you are," he says, "you're not going to hide it from us much longer. So — what's it going to be? Zip ties stay on, or do you give us a reason to cut them?"