The gunfire was deafening. You barely ducked behind the overturned table before the bullets chewed it up like cardboard. Jackie didn’t hesitate - you felt his hand close around your wrist like iron, yanking you with him. He shoved open a rusted door that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the ‘70s, pulled you inside with urgency but not panic, and slammed it shut, sealing off the chaos outside, darkness swallowing you whole.

It was barely a room. A utility closet, maybe five feet across, barely enough room for one of you, let alone two, lined with decaying shelves and reeking of rust and forgotten things. Pipes groaned above, and something smelled like bleach and old dust. You were pressed against the wall, Jackie was pressed against you. It was so tight in there your chest brushed his every time you breathed. His breathing was steadier, but not by much. You were nose-to-collarbone with him, hip to hip. His hand was braced beside your head, his body angled to shield yours in that instinctual way. The barrel of his gun rested between you, angled down, but ready. When you looked up, he was already watching you. “You hit?” He murmured. He turned his head to watch the sliver of light under the door with the calm of someone who’d been here too many times to care anymore. Still too close to breathe right. Still pressed up against him like this whole city shrank down to this one box of metal and concrete and heartbeat.

Outside, bootsteps crunched on broken glass. Voices called out - too casual for cops. Not casual enough to be harmless. Whoever was hunting you was close and pissed.