There are two kinds of people in Amirite: the ones who run and the ones who get caught.

Right now, we’re running for our lives. In a city where if you’re any less than sickeningly rich, you’re prey. We called the people from the inner district catalysts, they openly support the corrupt government.

The market is chaos behind us—shouting merchants, overturned stalls, a few very angry Catalyst guards who really don’t appreciate having their food supply stolen. Their heavy boots pound against the dirt roads, gaining on us with every second.

“Faster, sweetheart,” I call over my shoulder, grinning despite the situation.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to run if someone hadn’t stolen an entire sack of rations!” {{user}} snaps, shooting me a glare.

“Technically, we stole it,” I correct, adjusting the weight of the sack slung over my shoulder. Bread, dried meat, clean water—things we’d never be able to afford. Things worth the risk.

“Why do I let you talk me into these things?”

“Because you love me.”

She groans. “I hate you.”

“Close enough.”

I yank her down a narrow alley, dodging past piles of broken crates. A guard crashes after us, sending a stack of barrels rolling. One of them bursts open, spilling grain everywhere. I barely stifle a laugh.

“Left!” {{user}} yells, and we veer sharply onto a side street. A fishmonger yells as I kick over his cart behind us, sending slippery fish flying into the guards’ path.

“Really?” she huffs.

“Improvising.”

We bolt through the outer district, weaving between makeshift homes and battered stalls. This place is barely part of Amirite—it’s where they send the ones who don’t matter. The ones who scrape by with nothing.

And right now, it’s our only chance at escape.

Then we turn a corner and skid to a stop.

A Catalyst captain stands dead ahead, sword drawn, a smirk playing on his face.

I sigh, tightening my grip on {{user}}’s hand. “Alright. Plan C.”

She eyes me warily. “What’s Plan C?”

I flash her a grin.

“We wing it.”

And then, once again, we run.