The air turned acrid, a chemical burn igniting in her lungs. Tomas crumpled, a strangled cough tearing from his chest as he clawed at his neck, his face already flushing crimson. Even Levon’s men at the threshold recoiled, their shouts muffled by the heavy steel doors that now sealed them in. “The cooler!” Senna gasped, her voice raw, vision blurring as tears streamed from smarting eyes. She stumbled towards the white chest, driven to protect the fragile cargo despite the searing pain. The green haze thickened, coiling around them like a predatory mist. Her head swam, the metallic tang of fear mixing with the noxious fumes. Levon moved with an unnatural swiftness for a man now breathing poison. He gripped her arm, not roughly, but with an absolute, undeniable force. “Forget the box,” he commanded, his voice a gravelly whisper, even as a cough wracked his frame. He pulled a small, black oxygen mask from a hidden pocket on his tactical vest, the kind used for close-quarters breach operations. It was a single unit, clearly designed for one. Senna shook her head, fighting him, her entire being screaming to save Tomas, to save the cure. “Tomas! Give it to him!” she choked, pointing a trembling finger at her brother who was now on his knees, body convulsing. The gas was dissolving her will, blurring her thoughts. Levon’s gaze, though clouded by the gas, was unyielding. He didn't speak, but his eyes, sharp even in fading light, conveyed an iron certainty. He twisted her head towards him, his large hand cupping her jaw, and with an efficiency that brooked no argument, he pressed the mask firmly over her nose and mouth. The rush of clean, cool air was instantaneous, a shock to her burning lungs. She gasped, sucking in a life-giving breath, but the relief was immediately overshadowed by terror. He had no mask for himself. He made no move to search for another. He was giving his only chance at survival to her. “Levon, no!” The mask muffled her cry, but panic showed clear in her stare. She tore at the straps, trying to pull it off, to press it to his face, but his grip was unyielding. He held her there, his chest heaving, his face growing paler under the greenish pallor of the gas. His eyes, though still fixed on her, began to lose their sharp focus, a hazy film spreading over them. He offered a faint, almost imperceptible shake of his head, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. It carried neither triumph nor arrogance, only a raw, deliberate devotion that defied logic. “Breathe,” he managed, his voice barely a rasp, before another violent cough seized him, bending him double. Senna could only watch, helpless and horrified, as the gas began to truly take hold of him. His movements grew sluggish, his powerful frame wavering. He stumbled back against the wall, sliding down, his eyes still trying to find hers through the thickening haze. His breathing became shallow, punctuated by ragged, wheezing gasps. She saw the fight leaving him, saw the life draining from his formidable presence, all for her. For the first time in years, the carefully constructed walls around her heart cracked, then shattered. She dropped to her knees beside him, the clean air from the mask now tasting like ash in her mouth, like guilt. The stubborn control she forced upon herself broke into naked fury and grief. She tugged at his arm, hauling upward to force air back into his chest. Fat, hot tears, no longer from the gas, streamed down her face, soaking the mask, blurring her vision even further. “Don’t you dare,” she sobbed, her voice cracking, pleading with a man who was rapidly slipping away. Her hands scrabbled at his chest, futilely trying to find a pulse that wasn't already weakening. “Levon, please. Stay with me. You can’t… you can’t leave me here. Not now.” The words, unbidden and raw, spilled out. “I don’t want it to be a lie, Levon. I want our marriage… I want it to be real.” The confession hung between them, bare and jagged in the poisoned room. His eyelids fluttered, a faint tremor running through his body. A small, weak smile touched his lips, a silent acknowledgment, before his head lolled to the side, his breathing almost imperceptible. “No! Levon!” Senna screamed, her voice hoarse, shaking him with a sudden, frantic energy. Tomas, barely conscious, slumped against a far wall, oblivious. Her world narrowed to Levon’s fading face, to the horrific silence of his breath. A deafening explosion ripped through the vault, rocking the entire structure. The heavy steel door, now warped and shredded, was violently blown inward, crumpling against the wall. A blast of fresh, glorious air rushed in, momentarily clearing the haze. Through the dust and smoke, Brida stood silhouetted against the shattered hallway, a smoking detonator clutched in her hand. Behind her, syndicate enforcers scrambled through the opening. Beyond Brida, the ruined lobby swarmed with figures. Goran Ozer stood front and center, his face a mask of cold fury, surrounded by a dozen heavily armed men, all with rifles raised, their muzzles pointed directly at Senna, Levon, Brida, and a barely conscious Tomas.

Breath and Steel