Jack took off along the balcony at full speed, weaving between broken boards and low-hanging washing lines that snapped against his shoulders as he pushed through them. A loose plank shifted under his foot - he adjusted without thinking, weight shifting, stride correcting before he lost momentum.
Too slow.
He vaulted a fallen beam, landing hard, boots skidding slightly on damp wood before he caught himself and drove forward again.
The long way around. No choice.
No shortcuts this time.
He risked a glance at the window. Nothing. Just light.
His pulse hammered in his ears. He rounded the corner too fast and nearly collided with one of Kate’s neighbours, a thin man with a stained vest and a half-healed cut across his scalp, carrying a dented bucket that sloshed as Jack clipped past him.
The man swore. Jack didn’t slow.
Ten metres. Then the turn. Then the door.
He pushed harder, lungs burning now, breath coming shorter.
The mill’s grinding filled the air, low and constant, vibrating through the wood beneath his feet. Rain tapped unevenly against the broken roofing above.
Under it, something else.
A sound from the room? Or just the blood pounding in his ears.
He cut behind a hanging sheet, the world dimming as damp fabric brushed across his face. Damnit he'd lost sight of the window. For those five seconds he was blind, his mind raced. He ran the room through in his head.
Door straight ahead. Narrow space. Table just inside. Bed to the right. Window opposite.
No second exit.
If the man was still inside, he’d either be waiting by the door or already at the window.
If he was waiting
Jack felt his jaw tighten.
He burst out the other side of the sheet.
The window was closed.
Didn’t matter.
The door stood open.
Jack didn’t slow.
Five metres.
Four.
The angle of the doorway came into view. The room beyond lit, still, nothing moving where it should have been. Too quiet. No struggle. No noise at all.
He hit the turn and drove through the open doorway - and the floor went out from under him.
Wet.
His foot slipped forward, body following half a beat behind, balance gone before he could catch it.
In that split second, the room snapped into focus.
The man, already halfway out the window.
Kate, on the floor.
Wrong.
Everything wrong.
Jack’s hand was already moving.
Knife from his belt. No time to think. He threw.
The blade left his hand clean, straight. But his footing wasn’t.
The angle was off.
A fraction.
Just enough.
The knife struck and dug into the man’s side.
Not deep enough. Not enough to stop him.
He was gone. Out the window and into the rain beyond.
Jack hit the ground hard, shoulder jolting as the impact knocked the breath from him. Pain flared down his arm.
He pushed through it.
Up again.
Moving before the thought had even formed.
Across the room Kate lay where she’d fallen, twisted slightly, one arm trapped beneath her.
Too still.
Jack dropped beside her, hands already reaching, lifting her just enough to turn her over. Blood soaked her shirt, warm and sticky against his palms.
“Kate”
No response.
His fingers pressed against her neck.
Nothing.
He shifted, tried again, pressing harder this time.
Still nothing.
His hand moved to her chest, waiting
No breath.
No movement.
Just stillness.
His grip tightened without him meaning to, fingers digging into the fabric at her shoulder. He checked again, sharper this time, like force might change the answer.
It didn’t. Her eyes were open, staring past him at the ceiling - empty.
Jack sat there for minutes or hours, he couldn't tell. Holding her limp body, covered in her blood. One thought repeating through his head. I was too slow.