Yasha kicked back with his legs, scooting across the floor until he was under the kiosk desk. The shutter was down, sealing the small room. His savior slammed the door shut and shot under the desk with him. Her fingers threaded with his, her grip tight; blunt nails biting into the meat of his hand.

‘You’ll be safe in here,’ she told him, voice low and tense. Her long unbound hair formed a curtain over her face, combined with the dimly lit interior Yasha had trouble making out her...