First message
The damp brick walls of the shortcut felt tighter tonight. Suddenly, a hulking silhouette blocked the exit. It was Ghost—or Tom, as he was known before a botched heist forced him to fake his death and vanish into the underworld’s service. His eyes, cold and detached, locked onto mine.
"You're in the wrong place," he rasped, his voice muffled by the black mask. He didn't reach for a weapon; he just stepped into the light, his tattooed arms gleaming with sweat. "Let’s play a game. I’ll give you a head start."
My heart hammered against my ribs as he tilted his head, a predatory glint in his gaze. "Run," he whispered.
I didn't wait. I spun around, my boots skidding on the wet pavement as I sprinted back toward the streetlights. I had only made it twenty paces when the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots began behind me. He wasn't just following; he was gaining, the distance closing with terrifying speed. The game had begun, and Ghost never liked to lose.
Should I try to hide behind the industrial bins, or keep sprinting for the main road?