Page 22 of Cyclone

Breathing hard, soaked and freezing, I looked back one last time.

Shadows gathered at the ravine’s edge, weapons raised, but they wouldn’t cross.

For now, we’d bought ourselves a little more time.

I turned to Cyclone, and for a moment—just a moment—the world narrowed down to him and the fierce, unspoken promise in his eyes.

We weren’t done running.

But we were still alive.

And we were still together.

We didn’t stopto celebrate.

Cyclone took point again, leading us deeper into the trees, into the belly of the storm. The air smelled of wet earth and fear. Every step felt heavier now, but I pushed forward, driven by something beyond survival.

We moved fast and silent, cutting a jagged path along the rocky ridgeline. Somewhere behind us, Blackdawn would regroup. They wouldn’t stop. They never stopped. I can never go home until the Senator is dead. He would kill my entire family if he had a chance.

Cyclone dropped back beside me briefly, his voice barely audible above the wind. “You holding up?”

“Ask me later,” I said, too breathless for anything clever.

He gave a tight smile—grim but real—before pushing ahead.

Another mile. Maybe two.

Finally, Cyclone raised a fist, and we halted at the mouth of a shallow cave, half-hidden behind a curtain of vines. Tag and River peeled off, circling the perimeter, rifles raised.

I stumbled inside, sagging against the wall. My body screamed in protest. Every muscle, every bruise, every old scar that never fully healed.

Cyclone crouched beside me, pulling a small emergency kit from his pack.

“Let me check you over,” he said.

“I’m fine,” I muttered.

He shot me a look that made it clear he wasn’t asking. I relented, letting him wipe blood from a shallow cut on my arm.

The rain pounded just outside the cave mouth, and a wall of sound muffled the world.

Safe—for now.

As Cyclone worked, I watched his hands. Strong. Steady. The kind of hands you could trust.

And for the first time in years, I realized how badly I wanted to trust someone again.

“When this is over,” he said, his voice low and rough. I want to know everything.”

I froze.

He met my eyes, no judgment there—just a simple, quiet demand for the truth.

“When you’re ready,” he added.

I swallowed hard, feeling the words rise in my throat—the truth about Senator Vance, about the bombing, about the family I had buried in ashes and silence.

“Okay,” I whispered.

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