Romance

  Brett&#39;s Perspective
  Running.
  Damn it all, just pure, adrenaline-fueled, lung-searing *running*. The cold air scraped my throat like ground glass. Every ragged breath tasted of iron and distant rot. My right arm screamed with a dull, throbbing ache—a deep gash from the pipe, maybe a pulled muscle. It hung useless, a disobedient ragdoll limb throwing off my balance as I stumbled over rubble and mud, almost eating dirt half a dozen times.
  But all four of us were moving. Luka was on my left, wheezing like a broken bellows, but his eyes were terrifyingly bright. Scarface was ahead to the right, moving through the debris with the agile grace of a true predator. Rat brought up the rear, his skinny frame lurching but never stopping.
  Behind us, the prison sirens had faded to a blurred, constant background whine. But another sound was closer, deadlier—the barking of dogs. Not the yap

  Brett&#39;s Perspective
  What we&#39;re doing lately? The coolest thing ever. Seriously, tops anything I&#39;ve ever done—*planning a prison break*. Me, Brett, legit scheming how to bust out of this creepy joint.
  Okay, not just &quot;me.&quot; &quot;Us.&quot; Besides Luka, we&#39;ve cautiously brought in two others. Scarface—quiet, vicious, with an eagle eye for detail. And &quot;Rat&quot;—skinny, agile, ears like a bat, always catching whispers from the corners. We chose them because they can keep their mouths shut, and more importantly, they have the same look in their eyes—the will to live, the fear of just… vanishing. Luka shared a bit about the &quot;disappearances&quot; with them. That was enough. Nobody wants to be next.
  Our little group operates in the shadows. During yard time, we mix it up in fake scuffles to exchange whispers. After lights-out, we hold meetings with cod

Brett&#39;s Perspective
  Running.
  Damn it all, just pure, adrenaline-fueled, lung-searing *running*. The cold air scraped my throat like ground glass. Every ragged breath tasted of iron and distant rot. My right arm screamed with a dull, throbbing ache—a deep gash from the pipe, maybe a pulled muscle. It hung useless, a disobedient ragdoll limb throwing off my balance as I stumbled over rubble and mud, almost eating dirt half a dozen times.
  But all four of us were moving. Luka was on my left, wheezing like a broken bellows, but his eyes were terrifyingly bright. Scarface was ahead to the right, moving through the debris with the agile grace of a true predator. Rat brought up the rear, his skinny frame lurching but never stopping.
  Behind us, the prison sirens had faded to a blurred, constant background whine. But another sound was closer, deadlier—the barking of dogs. Not the yaps of pets. This was low, guttural, the excited baying of trackers on a scent, cutting through the 

Chapter 268