When it hit her that no one was coming, she stood up and started dragging Ayla with her. Ayla's pulse felt weak, and tears streamed down Aylin's face, mixing with the blood on her sister's dress. She cried silently and pulled Ayla along, feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Ayla's knees buckled under the strain, but Aylin didn't let go. She pushed herself to keep moving, even as her heart ached.
As she dragged Ayla through the emergency tunnel, Aylin curled her arms under her sister's knees, feeling the coldness of Ayla's skin against her own. The blood-soaked dress hung behind them like a ghostly veil, a grim marker of everything that had just happened.
Her hands were raw and shaking, but she refused to let go of the gun. It felt like her last line of defense after everything they'd faced—the violence, the betrayal, the loss.
She pressed her forehead against the cold wall, pausing at the junction of the hallways.
Breathing. Shaking.
