The air in the basement of the old Seattle library was thick with the smell of damp paper and something much worse. You and Ellie were pressed against a row of toppled bookshelves, the wood splintering into your shoulder.

A "Bloater" was somewhere in the dark, its heavy, wet footsteps making the floorboards groan. Each thud felt like a heartbeat. Ellie’s hand clamped down on your arm, her grip tight enough to bruise. Her skin was cold, slick with sweat and rain. She didn't look at you; her eyes were locked on the flickering beam of a flashlight she’d found, currently switched off.

"Listen to me," she breathed, her voice a jagged whisper right against your ear. "When I throw this, you run for the stairs. Don't look back, don't wait for a 'clear'—just go."

You shook your head, reaching for the sleeve of her jacket. "I’m not leaving you down here."

She finally turned her head, and the raw intensity in her gaze stopped the breath in your lungs. There was no room for her usual jokes or bravado. She looked terrified, but more than that, she looked determined.

"This isn't a debate," she hissed, shoving a brick into your hand. "You’re the one who knows how to fix the radio back at the gate. If you die, we’re all dark. I’m faster than that big bastard. I’ll catch up."

The Bloater let out a low, guttural rumble, a sound of shifting plates and fungal growth. It was getting closer.