He grabbed the Antizin vials, stuffing them into his pack, when a sound like tearing silk echoed from the alleyway behind him. He froze. It wasn't the clumsy shuffle of a zombie. It was fast. Rhythmic. A Volatile. Crane didn't look back. He bolted.
Crane didn't need the reminder. He leaped, his body a blur of practiced motion. He caught a ledge, swung over a gap, and rolled onto a flat roof. He was a tracer, a ghost of the skyline, but even ghosts had to fear what came out at night. Articles on the topic: "Dying light"
He skidded across the concrete floor, gasping for air. The heavy metal doors slammed shut with a definitive thud , leaving the screams of the night outside. He grabbed the Antizin vials, stuffing them into
"Move fast, Crane," the response crackled through. "The shadows are stretching. You don’t want to be caught on the street when the light dies." It was fast
He felt the wind of a clawed hand narrowly miss his shoulder. He scrambled up a barricade of spiked plywood, kicked a climbing infected square in the face, and threw himself through the closing gap of the Tower’s main gate.
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