The door doesn't just break - it deforms. I can hear metal shrieking, the sound of something being twisted past its design tolerances, and then the whole frame just gives up and crashes inward like it was made of cardboard. The security system starts screaming, high-pitched beeping to show that yes, someone is here, wake up. Plus, the silent alarm to the police station, but I have no idea how long that takes. Five minutes? Ten? Twenty?

  There's a loud crunching noise, something wooden colliding with something metal.

  I grab Tasha's arm and we're already moving before I consciously decide to run, heading deeper into the auditorium toward the back booths. My laptop's still open on the floor where I left it, Silverstein's face frozen on the screen next to a property record, and I have this stupid split-second thought about how we should grab them, save the evidence, but then I hear footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Methodical. Not rushing.

  That's worse, somehow. Rushing would mean urgency, fear, anger. This sounds professional.

  We duck behind one of the partition walls - the one near the kitchenette that Jordan reinforced when they were living here. Seven, maybe eight feet tall, old wood that smells like decades of dust and whatever they used to seal it, and a slight hint of paint. Tasha's breathing too loud and I'm trying to control mine but my ribs are already protesting, the electrical burns pulling tight across my chest, my abdomen yelling at the sudden motion.

  The footsteps reach the second floor landing. Stop.

  "Nothing personal, kids." The voice is male, thin, whistly, completely calm. I can't see his face but it gives me the distinct impression of a stoat, or a ferret, or a rat. But a professional rat. Like he's delivering a package. "You've been making noise in the wrong places. Time to stop. I'll give you the first push."

  I risk a glance around the partition edge. Big guy. Six-three, maybe six-four. Thin, willowy, but he's got meat on him. Long fingers. Bandages wrapped around his face and torso like a mummy, only exposing a thin strip of dark eyes, and a sleeveless vest over top of all that. He's looking at our laptops on the floor.

  He walks over, kneels down. Closes my laptop. And presses. With a loud, inevitable crunch, it splits in half against his hand. Tasha's laptop goes next. He picks it up with one hand, and flings it into the wooden wall so hard it bursts.

  "They pay me by the hour," he says, walking toward the dispatch desk in the corner booth, where Tasha's whole computer setup is. "And I'm willing to split my time over multiple sessions."

  He rips the monitor off the desk - I don't see how he grabbed it but suddenly it's just off, stand and all, and he drops it on the floor and stomps on it. The screen spiderwebs and goes dark. Then the tower. He puts his hand on top of it and just pushes down and the whole metal case crumples like aluminum foil.

  I look at Tasha. She's staring at where her setup used to be, face pale. I feel like I'm dreaming, a little bit.

  We need to move. Now.

  I tap her shoulder and point toward the stairs going up to the third floor. If we can get up there, maybe circle back down, get to the office under the main stairs, out the side exit to where the dumpsters are. Just need him to commit to searching the second floor while we--

  His head turns. Looks directly at our partition. He takes two steps forward, and the bandages on his face shift with movement. "Howdy," he says, breaking out into a leisurely power-walk. His hand is outstretched, and I don't need to waste time arguing with myself about whether or not he's here to give us a high five or to push our faces into a fine mist.

  We run.

  The third floor stairs are on the opposite side of the landing from where we are, which means we have to cross open space, and I'm pulling Tasha along because I think she's in shock. My ribs are yelling and I can already feel my lungs burning but we hit the stairs and start climbing.

  Behind us, I hear a sound like splintering wood.

  I look back. He's dragged his fingers through the partition wall we were hiding behind. Not punching, not breaking - his hand is just in the wood, and as he pulls it sideways the whole plank comes apart in sections, fibers separating like he's unzipping it. Some pieces are still anchored to the frame but the rest just peels away, and then he punches through what's left with his other hand.

  "Structural weaknesses," he says, pulling his hand back out. There's splinters stuck to his palm but they fall off when he shakes his hand once. "Old building. Lots of them."

  Stairsstairsstairsstairsstairs. Two at a time.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  We're on the third floor landing now. The layout here is similar to the second floor but more rectangular, with that big dividing wall running down the center. More storage booths, less furniture. More dust. I can see it floating in the strips of late afternoon light coming through the boarded windows.

  Tasha's breathing is ragged and panicky. "What do we--"

  I put my finger to my lips. Sound carries in here. We need to be quiet, need to think.

  The stairs creak as he starts climbing. Not rushing. Still that same methodical pace.

  There's a storage booth to our right that's mostly empty except for some of Jordan's old boxes. We could hide there, wait for him to go past, double back down. Or we could try to get to the other side of the dividing wall, use it as cover. Or--

  The railing on the stairs makes a sound like a tree branch snapping.

  I peek around the corner. He's got his hand on the wooden railing and he's just... pulling it. The whole section comes free, bolts still attached to the underside where it tore out of the wall brackets. He's holding it like a baseball bat for a second, then his grip changes - his whole palm is just flat against it but it's not falling - and he swings his arm.

  I duck. Tasha ducks. The railing flies off his hand like he shot it from a cannon. It corkscrews through the air like a spinning javelin and I barely pull Tasha down before it punches through the wall a foot over where our heads were, sailing through into another partition, and one more, before losing its momentum and crunching. He missed us on purpose. But how did he know where we were?

  "You dug too deep, too greedily," he says, still climbing. "So your base gets trashed and your friend gets hurt. You find something else? Maybe it's your Dad's car. Or your Mom's library. Or--" He reaches the third floor landing, turns to look at us crouched behind a partition. "--Mrs. Reynolds' hospital."

  My blood goes cold. Tasha makes a small sound.

  "We can do this longer than you can," he continues, starting to walk toward us. "Every lead costs you something. Eventually the people around you will ask if it's worth it."

  I grab Tasha and we run again, heading for the dividing wall. If we can get behind it, put something solid between us and him, buy time for the cops to arrive...

  He's not running but he's not slow either. I can hear his footsteps, steady and inevitable. He stops when he hears us stop. He walks when we walk. We round the dividing wall and I'm looking for exits, options, anything. There's the stairs back down on this side, or we could try to barricade ourselves in one of the booths, or--

  Tasha grabs my arm. Points straight down, through the floor. Makes a little two-fingers-walking on her other palm. The office. The tiny one that goes under the stairs, exits out to the side where the dumpsters are. If we can get down there, out the side door, we're on the street. Witnesses. Safety. Distance.

  We look back around the edge of the third floor's main entryway. I peek around the corner. His hand rips through the wall, grabbing me by the collar of my shirt and yanking me up against the old, dry paint. Fuck. Stupid. Ambushed. "Office under the stairs," he says from behind the wall. "Good thinking. I already smashed the lock in, though."

  Then, he shoves me back. I don't stumble, but Tasha does, and it ends up making me trip - no, don't worry about her, just help her up, Sam. I scoop her into my arms and drag her back to her feet. I'm not letting her get hurt on my watch. She didn't sign up for this.

  His hand rips sideways through the wall like it's not there, and then, with the extra latitude, he swings out, busting free with a horrendous noise and a spray of dust.

  "Sam--" Tasha starts.

  "Run when you can," I tell her quietly.

  He's still approaching, slow and steady. I grow my teeth, feeling them come out from my knuckles, my wrists, my forearms.

  "You're injured," he observes, like he's commenting on the weather. "Ribs. Recent electrical burns. Fighting through it. Admirable but stupid."

  Tasha hasn't run. She's frozen, staring at him. When are the fucking cops getting here?

  "Your turn," he says to her.

  "No," I say, getting back up. "Me. Leave her alone."

  He looks at me for a second. Then back at Tasha.

  "That's not how this works," he says.

  He moves. Fast, faster than I can react, and he's got Tasha by the arm. She tries to pull away but his grip doesn't budge. He's dragging her toward him and I'm moving, growing teeth along my forearm, trying to get between them--

  He grabs her other arm too and twists both wrists toward each other, forcing her arms to cross over her chest in a way that makes her shoulders hunch forward. I can see the pressure points he's using, the way he's positioned his thumbs. Her sleeves are riding up.

  Lines. So many lines. Crisscrossing up her forearm, some old and white, some newer and purple. I've never-- she always wears long sleeves. Even in summer. Even when we're just hanging out. And I never--

  "Sam!" Tasha's voice cracks.

  I lunge at him, teeth-armored fist aimed at his kidney. My body shifts back into boxing mode on pure instinct now. I hit him with a textbook stomach blow, but it's like hitting a brick wall. I pull, and blood comes out, but he barely moves. Just makes a noise. Spit collects on the inside of his bandages. He lets go of Tasha's wrists, and does a classic, kung-fu style palm thrust, no kiai. It hits her square in the chest and she goes stumbling back into one of the third floor partitions, slamming into the wood with an audible thump.

  "Alright, Bloodhound. You want to play rough?" he growls, catching my wrist on its way to the second swing. For a second, gravity stops existing, and then I go hurtling into Tasha, tossed with only slightly more care, turning the two of us into a heap on a disused mattress. Thank G-d for small blessings.

  I need an advantage. Any advantage. Tasha is breathing heavy, but I don't smell any blood from her, not even from the mouth or nose, no bruising. That's good. She gets up before I do, panting like a scared dog.

  "Come on," Tasha squeal-whispers, yanking me up to my feet and starting to drag me towards the back of the third floor, further into the darkness. "We need to get to the breaker."

  I know what she's thinking before she needs to clarify. This guy - this... I don't know, he's not giving us time to stop and think about it. But he's not running either. Just walking straight towards us in a direct line. He slams his fingertips into the large dividing wall in the center of the third floor, and pulls, ripping quarter-sized gashes in the material.

  I shove Tasha towards the breaker. "Go!"