“Come on!” Peter ordered. The worry in the air was palpable as we ran faster, and the burning in my legs threatened to become unbearable. Ahead, Peter and a male team member debated directions. The hallways narrowed, widened, rose, and fell, stretching into oblivion. It became impossible to tell if we were above or below ground.

We rounded a bend at full speed. At once, my vision blurred, and I slammed into the person ahead of me. We had entered a cavernous room, filled with swirling tendrils of black smoke. The only light came from dim bulbs high in the ceiling. There were no windows, and the exits were obscured.

A confused murmur cut through the smoke. Someone touched my arm, and I recognized Owen’s outline. I gripped his arm and turned to speak, perhaps to offer a word of comfort.

Without warning, the ground heaved under my feet, sending me airborne. My grip on Owen broke loose, and a roar louder than an incoming train vibrated my skull. I opened my mouth as if to scream, and the world went white.

***

I became aware of my body slowly. For a moment, I could not tell whether my eyes were open or closed. My mouth and ears felt stuffed with cotton. I tried to move my fingers, but they refused, and for a moment I seemed to hang on the precipice of unconsciousness and awareness.

Get up, I thought sluggishly. Still, nothing moved.

I swallowed. My throat was dry and shredded, like baked earth after a drought. I blinked—once, twice, and the world came into sharper focus. The smoke had grown thicker, shrouding everything that was more than a few feet away. For once I was grateful; my helpless body wouldn't be visible unless someone stumbled upon me.

I breathed slowly. As the tension left my body, the first wave of pain descended. I gasped, and my nerves seemed to stand on end. With the pain, my vestibular sense returned, and I forced myself up onto an elbow.

The room tilted, and the base of my skull pulsed with pain. The urge to lay down was almost overwhelming, but I waited it out, breathing thinly through my teeth. The world was utterly silent. I felt my ear clumsily, and my hands came away slick with blood.

I crawled a few feet to my right and supported myself against the wall. The floor was a minefield of stone shards and shrapnel. I half-stood, half-crouched, and took a couple of tentative steps. I need to find the others. Where’s Owen?

I dragged myself along the wall, hoping to cross the room and escape the smoke. As I moved, I realized that I had lost all concept of time. What if Peter has already left? I wondered desperately. I’ll never find the exit by myself.

I stumbled as my foot collided with something dark and soft. Slowly, I crouched down and waited for the smoke to clear.

My heart clenched. I had kicked a man, and he was lying face down in a pool of dark liquid. I grabbed his wrist and checked for a pulse, but found nothing. For a moment, I stood frozen beside him, horrified by the body but unable to turn away. Finally, the spell broke, and I ripped off my mask and threw up over the man’s back.

I wiped my mouth with shaking hands and turned back toward the body. It was a man, but he wasn’t dressed in the Resistance’s clothing. I saw part of a symbol on his sleeve and twisted it toward me. A lump formed in my throat—it was the Blood Dove in front of a tower, the mark of a Fortress guard.

The symbol seemed to bore a hole through my mind, and the fabric of the man’s uniform was rough against my fingertips. I found myself wondering who had killed him, and hoping that it hadn’t been the Resistance. Then, when my own aversion to death appalled me, I dropped the fabric. Did you think no one would die? I asked myself. No, came the answer, but I didn’t think I’d be inside the Fortress to see it.

By the man’s hip, a black object glinted in the dim light. I moved closer and pulled it free, cringing as my hands became coated with blood. It was a medium-sized pistol, which I shoved into the waistband of my pants. I glanced at the body one last time, said a quick, silent prayer, and stood up again.

As I crept along the wall, the smoke finally began to thin, and my breathing returned to its usual rhythm. When I had crossed a good portion of the room, I came across a jagged hole in the wall. I approached cautiously, trying to stay hidden by the pile of rubble. Above me were the remnants of a marble archway, and the area behind it opened into another large room.

Through the archway, I could make out a half-dozen dark figures, only a few yards away from my hiding spot. They seemed to be conversing, but my sense of hearing still hadn’t returned from the explosion. I gripped a sharp piece of marble in my palm and watched.

They wore dark grey camouflage, a uniform I didn’t recognize. Around them lay the bodies of officers, dressed in the same clothing as the dead man laying in the first room. I turned my gaze away from them and focused on the men in grey. This must be the other group, the infiltrators that shot the security cameras and ransacked the record room.

Something moved on the ground near the conversing men, and a figure rose up as if to strike. I gripped the marble shard tighter—it was one of the Resistance’s men, wearing all black. One of the infiltrators turned sharply, held the rebel still, and hit him across the face. The rebel crumpled in his grip, and the infiltrator pushed him against the wall and ripped off his mask.

I gasped. The figure was Peter, and blood was gushing down his face. The men in grey exchanged a few more words, and then the man restraining Peter pushed a dark object against his chest. I fumbled with the pistol in my waistband. It seemed to grow heavier, a twisted reminder that I had never learned to shoot. Before I could even remove it, the infiltrator pulled the trigger, and Peter hit the wall like a ragdoll. Then, slowly, his body slumped forward and fell to the ground.

My knees folded, and hot tears poured down my cheeks. I had known Peter since I was a toddler; in many ways, he had been like a father to me. Without him, I was alone—lost inside the Fortress, untrained, and yards away from being discovered by six armed men who had taken out the entire Fortress staff.

I searched for Owen desperately. When I turned to look among the bodies past the archway, the men in grey shifted, and I finally found my best friend. His bicep was firmly encased in the hand of one of the infiltrators. His mask had been removed, and he was hunched over as if by grief. But he was alive.

I stared at the man holding Owen and the bodies of the policemen surrounding them. The metal of the pistol was cold against my hands. I gritted my teeth. My chance of shooting Owen’s captor was no better than my chance of shooting Owen himself. And if I did manage to kill him, the other five would be quick to act.

I didn’t waste time with delusions. Owen’s outlook was poor—if the men in grey didn’t kill him, Keon’s agents would when they tracked down the infiltrators.

But if I stayed, they would kill me too.

I stifled a sob and dragged myself past the opening. My vision was blinded by smoke and tears as I forced my legs to move again, away from the carnage of the explosion.

I had left Owen, and I had lost everything.