Four seconds. Three. And then everything happens, all at once, very fast. My muscles are fine-tuned to the strange, yawning sensation that Jordan's powers produce - but Mr. ESP's are faster, trained by years of gunplay and shooting ranges, I suspect. The space snaps closed between me and them, and a bullet sails into a suddenly-closer metal pillar, sparks lighting up the dimly lit corridors of the abandoned subway station. My feet are too embedded in the ground to move, and I'm not close enough to Mr. ESP, even from this angle, to do anything.

But Jordan isn't. Two seconds. Jordan's hand slips out of their pocket and the sharp glint of a pocketknife lights up in Spinelli's flashlight beam. "Kill it!" I shout, and the light goes out, vanishing Spinelli from my view. Jordan's lunge makes contact with the barrel of Mr. ESP's pistol, the tactical flashlight attachment blaring in Jordan's face, and with a thrust and a swish, the gun goes flick, scattering down to the ground where its beam of light slides under the nearby rails.

Then, space retracts.

Jordan's move leaves us a window of opportunity, and we don't waste it. We wriggle and pull, slipping out of our boots and leaving them, trapped and useless, in the liquefied concrete. We don't need words to be on the same page - get out of the mud, or die. The chill of the wet ground seeps through my socks, and I writhe with discomfort, quickly shedding them to go barefoot. Freedom, at least for the moment, feels like ice and dampness against skin, and the absence of light is our ally.

By the time Mr. ESP has his gun back, and his light, we're gone.

Jordan and I exchange a glance, a silent agreement, and we meld into the shadows of the tunnels. Our steps are cautious, calculated — a quiet dance of escape. There's no time for hesitation, no room for second-guessing. With each silent stride, we distance ourselves from the immediate danger, but the threat of what lurks in the dark looms as heavy as the air we breathe. I watch over Jordan's shoulder as Spinelli vanishes too, cradling his flashlight with him like a lifeline.

I grope along the cool, rough surface of the tunnel wall, my fingers seeking something—anything—that can turn my blood into an advantage. The darkness here is almost tangible, pressing against me from all sides, smothering me. It's a desperate kind of darkness, one that feels like it could swallow you whole if you're not careful. And then, my hand brushes against something sharp, something promising. I wrap my fingers around the shard of glass, its jagged edges biting into my palm. I don't hesitate; the pain is a small price to pay for what I need.

The glass slices into my skin, and a warm rush of blood follows. It's a familiar sting, one I've felt before, but never with this much desperation behind it. My blood drips down the wall, and I press my hand against the concrete, leaving a crimson mark that only I can track. In my mind's eye, the world shifts. The blood stains glow a vivid red against the backdrop of my blood sense, forming a map that paints the contours of my surroundings in harsh relief. I drag my open wound up against the concrete, smearing it into the ground, along every contour I can find, getting a blind view of my surroundings.

I can't afford to lose my way now, not when every second counts. I leave a trail of bloody breadcrumbs behind me, like some sort of fucked up Hansel-and-Gretal story. The pain in my hand pulses with my heartbeat, twitch, twitch, twitching away. I clench my teeth against the pain, turning it into focus, into determination.

The command slices through the dark, a harsh whisper from Jordan, "Spread." It's the only strategy left to us—disperse, become shadows in the tunnel. I watch as Mr. ESP's flashlight sweeps the area, hunting for any sign of movement. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, betraying my position to my own senses more than to his. I feel nauseous, on the verge of passing out, and not from blood loss - my hand is already stitching itself back together.

As I tuck myself behind a pillar, Mudslide's voice echoes through the tunnels, "Come out, come out, wherever you are, little bitch…" His taunt is met with Mr. ESP's sharp retort.

"Control yourself. This is not a game," Mr. ESP snaps, a hint of strain in his unusually cool tone.

"Ha! Easy for you to say," Mudslide fires back, "You're not the one itching for a rematch."

Their voices fade as I edge further into the shadows, trying to keep my breathing silent. The throbbing pain in my hand is a constant reminder of why I'm here. I need to be smart, I need to be silent. I need to be the predator, not the prey. I clench my fingers, squeeze my hands, and feel the uncomfortable sensation of teeth emerging from my knuckles. I think no matter how hard I try, I will never quite get used to it, but they're sharp, and hard enough to chip rock, as my fight with Pumice evidenced - they'll do fine.

In the suffocating darkness of the tunnel, the sound of slicing, almost imperceptible, whispers through the air. Jordan, with a deliberate motion, cuts their palm with their pocketknife. I'm not sure what Spinelli is cutting himself with, but his is much more modest, a tiny mark on his thumb, just to give me sight of his vascular system. I know instantly: they're marking themselves, painting themselves in blood for me to sense. It's a silent agreement, a way to weave a safety net in the pitch black.

Spinelli's movements are quieter still, but the faintest brush of his skin against the cold metal of the pillar betrays his climb. He ascends like a shadow, his lanky form stretching and contorting to fit into the narrow spaces above us. In my blood sense's eye, I picture him, almost spider-like, finding refuge in the crevices of the ceiling, preparing for an ambush.

The tunnel becomes a canvas of warmth in my senses, a network of living signatures pulsating in the dark. Jordan's blood leaves a trail across the concrete, a map written in red lines and dark black. Spinelli, suspended above, becomes a lurking threat, a silent predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I see the contours, like one of those illusion pictures where they don't have a donut, only the curved lines giving the appearance of a donut. Particle by particle, blood cell by blood cell, I develop my strategic advantage.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

I press myself harder against the cold pillar, feeling its rough texture against my back. I force my breaths to come slower, quieter, even as my heart races in my chest. Around me, the darkness feels alive, a breathing entity with a heartbeat of its own. My teeth finish emerging from my knuckles, sharp and ready, and I watch for Mr. ESP's flashlight in the dark.

Mr. ESP's flashlight pierces it, a beam of artificial day sweeping dangerously close to where I'm hiding. I press my back against the cold pillar, my heart hammering in my chest. I can hear Mr. ESP and Mudslide conversing, their voices a low murmur that echoes off the tunnel walls.

"Yeah, they're slippery, these kids," Mr. ESP says, a hint of amusement in his tone. "Like trying to catch smoke."

"Smoke doesn't bleed," Mudslide replies gruffly. "When we find them, they'll regret coming down here."

It's now or never. As Mr. ESP's light sweeps past, I dive out from behind the pillar, aiming for his face. My teeth graze his chin, a fleeting touch that's just enough. I feel a rush of warmth as my blood sense activates, painting a vivid picture of his vascular system in my mind.

Mr. ESP reacts instantly, the sound of his gun a deafening bang in the enclosed space. The bullet sparks off metal, missing me by inches as I roll away. I can hear his curse, a sharp exhale of frustration, as I scramble to put distance between us. My heart is racing, adrenaline coursing through my veins, but I can't help but feel a flicker of triumph. I've drawn first blood. Now, I can see him.

The tension in the tunnel ratchets up. I'm running, but Mudslide's powers throw a wrench in my plans. The ground beneath me turns to sludge, a trap I narrowly avoid falling into. Behind me, Mr. ESP is cursing under his breath, applying a makeshift bandage to his chin. "Damn it, she's got my blood now," he mutters, annoyance clear in his voice. "Not that I was trying to hide."

So he knows about my powers. Great. When did that happen?

Mudslide, ever the pragmatist, chides him. "Should've taken another shot, not whine about it."

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to keep quiet as my knee slams into the ground. The pain is sharp, a spike driving through my leg, but I can't yell, can't give away my position. I crawl towards solid ground, every movement a battle against the pain and the urge to cry out. The darkness feels even more suffocating now, a tangible barrier that I'm fighting against with every strained breath through clenched teeth.

From my vantage point, I watch through my blood sense as Spinelli makes his move. He descends from above, a dark silhouette against the dim backdrop of the tunnel, aiming his heavy-duty flashlight at Mudslide. The intended target is his head, but in the chaos, he misjudges and the flashlight comes down hard on Mudslide's shoulder instead. It's a solid hit, but not crippling.

"Jesus!" Mudslide shouts, giving Mr. ESP a start, as the other member of the Kingdom whirls on his foot and shoots without hesitating.

The sound of the bullet firing echoes, echoes, echoes, bouncing in the cavernous halls. But it misses clean, sailing over Spinelli's head as he twists himself 180 degrees in all the ways human bodies aren't meant to move.

That's three bullets. He looked to be using just a normal handgun, which means he's carrying at least 14 or 15 bullets in one magazine, or clip, or whatever. I'm erring on the side of 15 but trying to keep count. It is so fucking loud.

Pain shooting through my knee, I drag myself towards a nearby puddle. I let my blood flow into it, a small crimson stream that fans out into the water. This isn't just about leaving a trail; it's about creating a sensor web, a way to track their footsteps if they come close.

"You're gonna blow my eardrums out, fucker!" Mudslide complains, rubbing a pinky in his ear.

"Then make some distance. But stay in my sightlines. They're ambushing us," Mr. ESP responds, sweeping his gun left to right, using his feet to gauge distances, sticking close to walls and raised surfaces. "I can hear her breathing, just not from where. She's hurt."

Spinelli didn't stay put; he didn't even bother running away. Instead, he grabbed hold of the nearby pillar again, wrapping his limbs around it like a spider, and crawled up back into the ceiling, disappearing into the shadows. I'm left there, half in the dark, half in my blood sense world, trying to catch my breath and steady my heart.

The two assailants - the bad guys - climb up to the higher part of the station, above the tracks, their movements cautious and calculated. As they press themselves against a wall, Mudslide’s feet unwittingly dip into the puddle tinged with my blood, giving me a fleeting glimpse of his footsteps in my blood sense. The trail he leaves is ephemeral, fading as the water dries, but it's enough to track him for now.

Mr. ESP slows his sweeping flashlight, his movements becoming more deliberate as he checks each pillar methodically, hunting for any sign of us. Meanwhile, Mudslide retrieves his sack, filled with his makeshift arsenal. The sound of heavy objects clattering against concrete reverberates through the tunnel, a foreboding rhythm that sets my nerves on edge. He drags the sack up with him, preparing for what I can only assume is a more aggressive assault.

From my hiding spot, I watch them, taking note of their positions and movements. My mind races, trying to formulate a plan, while my body aches from the adrenaline pumping through it, making me feel dizzy. I'm getting that same kind of feeling that I got when I was fighting Aaron and the Phreaks in the street… am… I getting power high? I try to swat it away, remove the thought for later examination. It's for later, Sam. It's for later.

With the fluid grace of a practiced athlete, Mudslide retrieves a brick from his sack, answering my question as to what was actually in there, weighing it in his hand for a moment. He tosses it up and down, once, twice. He considers it from every angle. Then, with a motion that's part shot put, part baseball pitch, he hurls the brick into the darkness - and as soon as it leaves his hand, it disintegrates into a swarm of jagged shards, scattering in a deadly arc through the air.

The sound of the brick shattering is like a gunshot, loud and startling. It's a tactic to cover ground where Mr. ESP isn’t, to catch any of us trying to sneak up on them. I watch, frozen, as the shards whistle through the air, their trajectories unpredictable in the dim light.

Then, Jordan's cry cuts through the air, sharp and sudden. It's a sound that chills my blood, a sound of pain and shock. One of the brick shards has found its mark, embedding itself in Jordan's shoulder. They stumble back, hand clamped over the wound, a muffled curse escaping their lips, as Mr. ESP's flashlight snaps onto them with almost robotic precision.

"Gotcha," he says. He takes a crucial second to steady his aim, and Mudslide plugs his ears.

BANG!

This close, the sound is deafening, like a firecracker going off in my brain. I hate it. I try to keep track - that's the fourth shot, right? And then I remember - JORDAN!

Mr. ESP's flashlight, a beam of harsh, unforgiving light, fixes on Jordan immediately after the shot. The narrow miss is evident, a testament to Jordan's quick thinking and spatial manipulation. They had cut the space at an oblique angle, narrowly evading death by mere inches — a fact I confirm through my blood sense, which shows no new injuries on them.

But Mr. ESP, undeterred and precise, readjusts his aim. The anticipation in the air is palpable, a silent countdown to what feels like an inevitable conclusion. He fires again, the sound of the gunshot echoing through the tunnels like a clap of thunder. The bullet sparks off the metal column where Jordan was hiding just moments ago. His flashlight, now a beacon of dread, illuminates both sides of the column. Jordan is trapped, the light boxing them in, leaving no avenue for escape.