For the first time in a long time, I feel awake.
The sluggish haze that has blurred my days together unendingly has lifted now. I run, as fast as my aching legs will carry me, almost thirty storeys above the city that I have called home all my life. On the rooftops, I come alive.
But not for long.
Breathe the air in deeply, I tell myself. I repeat it in my head like a mantra; savour the sharp razor of my gasps as the oxygen surges deep within my lungs, cold and pure as it should be, coming in heavy pants now.
Faster! I urge, the word reverberating in my suddenly empty head—empty save for that one word. Faster!
Footfalls echo behind me, fast as lightning and from somewhere too close for comfort. The same footfalls have been trailing behind mine for almost ten minutes now, since I carelessly ventured out onto the roof of the CEC News Building.
There's got to be a way out of this hell.
"Do not run."
My legs and arms pump harder still, eyes desperately scanning the rooftop around me, seeking a way out of here; seeking a path to freedom and safety; seeking an opportunity to stop running, finally, and rest.
Everything hurts.
I hadn't meant to run, but it had been instinctual. As soon as I'd stepped onto the building's roof, they had lifted their guns with a chorus of sickening clicks and demanded that I present my I.D.
I didn't even have I.D. I'd only been visiting my father after school as he'd diligently typed out a story about Mayor Pope's death; only wanted to enjoy the fresh air and view from the roof as I had so many times before.
Why were they there? Why were they following me now?
Jump.
It's the only way.
The rooftop of the neighbouring building seems too impossibly far but by the time I begin to doubt my decision, it is too late. My limbs act of their own accord, pushing me faster and harder towards the gap; my heart leaps into my throat just as my feet lose contact with the ground; the city stretches on endlessly before me—unfurls beneath me, a drop more dramatic than any other I have witnessed—in row after row of clean, white buildings.
A grunt escapes me as I land. The edges of my world become blurred and all I can feel is the pain shooting through my ankle and the panic clawing desperately within me, screaming that I have to run. It takes more strength than I knew I had to push onwards.
I'm done for; it's over.
Ahead, a door flies open; it bangs hard against the white concrete behind it, causing me to jump and creating a small stutter in my heartbeat.
Dead, dead, dead... I'm dead. I'm finished. I'm done for.
A dark head pops around the corner. Surprise colors the features of this stranger as he takes in the sight before him. Me, a civilian, a girl who appears to be no older than eighteen, running for her life and pursued by six armed police officers. "Follow me," he yells. "In here."
I follow.
The figure leads me through the building; I'm slower than he is, considerably less athletic, and the shooting pain in my ankle has me limping around most corners instead of dodging around them at the breakneck speed he is.
"Up here," he yells over his shoulder. He scales a wall without hesitation and leans over to pull me up. Within seconds, we are curled in an air vent. He holds a finger to my lips and tells me not to move.
"Stay still," he mouths, crawling silently along the vent. He sits at the end for a moment, watching through a window, and waits to see if we were followed.
"It's your lucky day," he tells me.
You have no idea.
He reaches out his hand to me once more. It is firm, large and warm; reassuring as it envelops my tiny, pale ankle. "I'm Drake," he tells me, his voice warm and comforting as he pushes my jeans up to survey the damage.
"Cera," I tell him weakly, swallowing.
"Damn, you are lucky," he tells me, eyes widening. He gestures with his free hand towards my ankle. "This should be broken."
"It's not?"
"Nah," he murmurs, shaking his head. "We'll get you fixed up in no time."