Page 27 of Veil of Ashes

I twist, hard, and my heel catches the second one’s shin. He stumbles, but not enough to lose momentum. The first tightens his grip, yanking me back into his chest. His arm locks around my throat.

I drop my body. Dead weight. He huffs and adjusts.

That’s when I hit the trigger.

The smoke charge sewn into the hem of my coat bursts with a muted pop. Thick grey fog spills from the seams, billowing fast in the narrow corridor. Everything disappears into cloud.

The arm around my throat loosens for a split second—just long enough.

I wrench free and jab my middle finger forward. The ring blade releases with a click, slicing a clean arc across the closest man’s thigh.

He grunts, stumbles back into the smoke.

I pivot. The other one swings.

Metal cracks across my ribs. Another hit jabs my thighs.

White heat flares through my side. My breath punches out of me. I fall to one knee, coughing, eyes watering from the smoke and pain.

I drop the glass vial from my sleeve.

It hits the ground and shatters.

Adhesive spills across the concrete, already starting to foam.

I roll left. Just in time to watch the second man step forward—and freeze. His boot sinks into the glue, locking him to the asphalt.

“Bitch!” he snarls, yanking—but it’s too late.

I don’t wait to watch him work free.

I run.

My side’s on fire. Every breath a cut. Blood sticks to my ribs beneath the shirt. I hold one arm across my torso, boots slapping against pavement as I cut through side streets I haven’t seen in years.

The city blurs. Signs. Lights. Faces in windows. None of it registers.

All I hear is my father’s voice.

“Run, Syl.”

Same tone. Same alley. Different men. But the fear hasn’t aged a day.

I see his hand again, reaching for me before they dragged him away. The glint of his cufflink. The blood on his collar.

I never knew if that last word was goodbye or command.

I run harder.

The flower shop appears like a bruise at the edge of memory.

Boarded windows. Faded green awning torn halfway down. The name Clementine’s still etched on the cracked glass above the door, though no one’s read it in years.

I make it to the rusted gate, collapsing against the wrought iron. My breath comes in short, burning gasps. The alley behind me is empty. Quiet.

But I don’t believe in quiet.

I slide down the gate, gripping my ribs. My fingers come away sticky.

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