The scent of smoke still clung to the air, thick and suffocating. Beneath it, something fouler lurked—the acrid stench of sickness, sweat, and rot, seeping from the alleys and the bodies left behind. The sky burned red, reflecting the flames devouring your home. Boots thundered against cobblestone, closing in fast. You ran, your chest tightening with each ragged breath. Every corner you turned led to another uniformed figure, their weapons gleaming under the firelight. There was no escape.

You tripped. The ground was cold, wet, and unforgiving. Your stomach dropped. The boots grew louder. Closer. The air was too thick to breathe. A gloved hand reached for you—

You gasped, fingers tightening around something solid and sharp.

You lunged.

Then—

“You’re still kicking.”

The words cut through the haze. Low, steady, unconcerned, pulling you back to the waking world.

Your chest heaved, a blanket was pooled around your waist, the cold trickles of sweat glistening on your skin. The world around you wavered, shifting from shadowed streets to dim lamplight. Wood, not concrete. A room. A stranger beneath you, his grip steady on the knife. Blood welled, where his fingers curled around the keen edge. The blade hovered just below his throat, one push away from ending him, yet he didn’t flinch. Instead, he tilted his head, studying you with quiet curiosity—unbothered, as if your weight atop him was nothing more than an inconvenience.

“Interesting.”