tell me the truth will disappear if i'm holding your hands
The elevator shudders to a halt, the abrupt stop pitching his stomach upward before it settles again, and the sharp, too cheerful ding slices through the tense silence as the doors begin to slide open. He knows, even as he stands there bracing himself, that taking it was a risk, stupid maybe, especially now, when danger seems to seep from every hallway and shadow, when every second feels like it could tip the balance between getting out and not making it at all. The stairs would have been smarter, more controlled, with fewer blind corners and mechanical traps, but the reality is harsher than the logic; even with lungs that can carry him through an eight-minute mile and legs that have never failed him before (ignoring when one was crushed by a ladder truck, of course, but those were extenuating circumstances and totally not the point right now), they would not have been fast enough this time, not with the clock pressing in on him, not with the living, breathing entity of danger closing the distance. So he chose the elevator, chose speed over certainty, and now, as the gap between the doors widens inch by inch, he cannot shake the feeling that he has just delivered himself exactly where something is waiting.
The shots had started it. Seven. Fast. Too fast to be anything but what they were. For a second the cafeteria didn't understand, like the sound hadn't caught up to meaning yet. And then it did. Everything after that blurred into motion, people shoving back their chairs, voices rising, the kind of panic that doesn't have a shape, just direction. Out. Away.
He can still feel it in his chest, the force of it, pushing forward while everyone else pushed past him, shoulders knocking, hands grabbing at anything that might steady them. The halls had stretched out under harsh light, too open, with nowhere to hide, his footsteps loud in a way that made his skin prickle. He didn't stop. Didn't even think about stopping.
Somewhere between one turn and the next, he'd fumbled for his phone, hands unsteady, thumbs moving faster than he could think, messages fired into the group chat, short, broken, not even sentences, just enough to say that he was there; enough to ask if everyone was safe; that something was wrong; and that he was going in. No replies came. He'd tried calling Eddie then, once, twice, three times, pressing the phone tight to his ear like he could force an answer out of it. It rang and it rang and it rang. Nothing. No voice, no pickup, just the hollow drop back into silence each time.
The lockdown announcement had cut in somewhere along the way, calm and even, like it could be contained. There was no getting out now. Only going through.
Through the danger. Through the building. To his team. To—
"Eddie?" His name comes out like it doesn't quite belong to him, soft, uncertain, almost afraid of the answer.
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