Abhijat darted up the four flights of stairs to the second floor, taking the steps two at a time. An acrid smell filled his nostrils as soon as he reached the second-floor landing. He kept moving, his lungs burning with the lack of oxygen.

The passage leading up to his father’s old office was filled with smoke. He dashed up to the doorway and reached, instinctively, to turn the brass doorknob –

And recoiled, blisters forming on the skin of his palm as a cry escaped his lips.

He cursed, then tried kicking the door in. The sturdy fiberglass panel refused to budge. “Fuck,” he snarled, smoke filling his lungs even as he stood helplessly outside the chamber.

Preparing himself for the impact, Abhijat sucked in a deep breath and threw himself, shoulder-first, against the door. It creaked, but remained firmly shut. He took a step back and repeated the process, throwing his full weight against the door. This time, it creaked and moved slightly backwards.

Acrid fumes filled his lungs, choking him and making his eyes water. For a fleeting second, he considered backing away, getting to the safety of the ground floor and calling for help. He could barely breathe out here. What would it be like inside? He wouldn’t be doing Fasih any favors by burning to death alongside him.

And yet, had things been different – normal – it would have been his father inside the office.

“Third time’s the charm,” he muttered, and careened into the door one last time. It flew open, causing him to bang his head painfully against the reinforced fiberglass. He groaned. “Damnit!”

The smoke-filled chamber was dark and suffocating, with occasional flashes of fiery brightness that blinded him and made it harder to see. The curtains near the back were on fire, as was most of the carpet, making it look as though half the floor was burning. An ember singed the bottom of his boot, burning through the leather and causing a scalding pain to shoot through his foot.

The lights had gone out and there was smoke everywhere. His eyes watered incessantly, further clouding his vision. Abhijat thanked the stars for those miserable weeks of high-altitude training, which was the only reason he hadn’t yet collapsed from the lack of oxygen.

Dizzy, breathless, and in pain, he stumbled forward, trying to avoid the flames and the smoking remnants of what had once been expensive furniture.

Precious seconds passed before his stinging eyes landed on Fasih. The Prime Minister had collapsed face-first on his desk, his inky hair staining the polished tabletop, which was thankfully yet to catch fire.

Stepping over smoking debris, Abhijat closed the distance between them and pulled Fasih up by the scruff of his neck. He was pale, his face whiter than usual and his lips chapped and blue. He wasn’t breathing.

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“Goddammit!” he muttered, pulling Fasih unceremoniously off the chair and into his arms. He wasn’t heavy, and ordinarily Abhijat could have carried him without breaking a sweat. He didn’t ordinarily have burned feet and lungs full of smoke, however.

Staggering under the added weight, he inched towards the door. Something creaked, and a section of the plaster fell off the back wall.

Abhijat whirled, forgetting for a second that he was carrying a comatose Prime Minister in his arms. Swaying slightly, he took a step back, trying to find his balance without dropping Fasih, and promptly stepped on a splintered piece of smoldering wood.

His vision swam as he cursed a blue streak, his knees threatening to buckle. He was losing air he couldn’t afford to lose, yet it hurt to breathe, like a million hot pins were stabbing his lungs. His throat itched, but coughing made him choke, which only made the pain worse.

Every fiber of his being screamed at him to let Fasih go and make a run for it. What good would it do for both of them to die in this inferno?

Rito’s face flashed before his eyes. What would she say? And his parents? He wondered incoherently if they would miss him. He wondered if he would want them to.

His feet moved, almost of their own accord, towards the still-open door. Towards the light which promised fresh air and an escape from the searing pain in his chest.

Seconds before he’d reached the doorway, a grinding noise made him pause. He looked up. One of the wooden cupboards near the door was aflame. It burned with an orange and gold flame which sent sparks flying in every direction. They singed Abhijat’s face, even as he closed his eyes to keep them from blinding him.

There was another piercing screech and the cupboard collapsed, the top half falling across the doorway, still aflame.

Abhijat staggered back, his vision clouding over. He wasn’t sure if it was the sweat, the tears, or just the lack of oxygen. He looked back. The flames had eaten their way through most of the carpet and were moving incessantly forward, towards them.

In front of him, the heat from the burning cupboard made his skin prickle. He coughed, inhaling more smoke and retching into the fire, even as his ribs tried to crawl out of his body along with his lungs.

There was no way in hell he was going to be able to jump over the burning cupboard – not with Fasih in his arms. Trying it would be a death sentence for both of them. And yet, there was no other way out.

Waiting for the cupboard to burn down wasn’t an option. The chamber was full of wooden furniture and other flammable knickknacks waiting to catch fire. And even if they didn’t get burned to a crisp by then, they certainly would die of smoke inhalation.

Part of him wasn’t even sure if Fasih was still alive. And he had neither the energy nor the desire to check for a pulse.

He took a hesitant step forward, then jumped back with an aborted cry. It was too hot, and the embers flying around the blazing cupboard stung him.

His legs were shaking, and he could feel the dizziness getting worse. He’d end up killing both of them if he didn’t act, and act quickly.

Closing his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath. Well, nobody could say he hadn’t tried. And a concussion was better than third degree burns anyway. His arms shaking under the strain, he lifted Fasih’s prone form as high as he could manage and, with a strangled groan, threw him across the doorway, over the flaming cupboard, and into the safety of the corridor outside.

Something crackled behind him and a gust of smoke filled his lungs. The carpet was almost gone and a part of the large mahogany desk had caught fire. The advancing flames were less than a foot away.

He took a step back, further closing the distance, his heel barely an inch from the fire. Parting his lips, he inhaled deeply one last time, closed his eyes, and leaped.

The moment his feet touched the ground again, his knees buckled and he collapsed. He wondered if he had made it out of the office, but he was too tired to open his eyes and see.