Shoving the smoldering beam aside, Ethan clawed at the wreckage. It was too heavy, too immense. The superheated metal seared his palms, but he barely registered the pain. Lyra was on the other side. Trapped. He could hear the faint, terrifying crackle of flames intensifying in her section of the building.
"Lyra!" he roared, his voice raw, lungs burning with each desperate shout. Only the roar of the inferno answered.
Spinning, he scanned the crumbling hallway. Smoke billowed, thick and acrid, stinging his eyes, stealing his breath. He had to find another way. There had to be another way.
Instinctively, he turned back the way he'd come, seeking an alternate route, a detour around the impassable wall of fire and debris. Every second was a lifetime.
Flames licked at the doorway where they had just stood. A new inferno bloomed in the adjacent room, a hungry orange beast devouring everything in its path.
Pushing through the suffocating heat, he ignored the searing pain. His shirt was already singed, his hair crackling at the edges. Nothing mattered but reaching her.
Desperately, he pressed on, navigating the labyrinth of corridors. Each turn brought a new wave of heat, a fresh cascade of falling plaster. The building groaned around him, a dying beast.
A section of the ceiling groaned overhead, then gave way with a sickening crunch. Timber and insulation rained down, narrowly missing him. He scrambled forward, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.
Remembering the layout, he veered left, towards what used to be a storage room. Perhaps a back door, a connecting passage, anything.
Smoke blinded him, turning the world into a flickering, orange-red blur. He kept one hand pressed to the wall, guiding himself through the oppressive darkness, his other arm shielding his face.
Coughing violently, he gasped for air that was too hot, too thin. His body screamed in protest, but his will was unyielding. Lyra's face, etched in fear, flashed before his eyes.
He burst through a flimsy, burning door, finding himself in what looked like the back of the kitchen. Appliances lay toppled, wires sparking. The air here was even thicker, hotter.
Ahead, a faint light flickered. Hope surged through him, a jolt of adrenaline cutting through the exhaustion. It had to be her.
Lunging over a fallen shelf, he kicked through a charred doorframe. The heat intensified, a suffocating blanket. This was it. This was the room Lyra was trapped in.
Looking around, his eyes struggled to pierce the dense smoke. He saw overturned tables, scattered chairs, the remains of what had been a celebratory meal.
Then he saw her. A small, still form crumpled near a collapsed wall. His heart stopped. His breath hitched.
"Lyra!" he croaked, the sound barely a whisper. He stumbled towards her, ignoring the pain in his legs, the burning in his lungs.
Her head rested awkwardly against a charred beam. One arm was bent beneath her, clutching the small, ornate music box. Debris, a heavy section of the ceiling, pinned her legs.
He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands trembling as he reached for her neck. A faint pulse. Thank God. She was alive.
"Lyra, can you hear me?" he whispered, gently brushing ash from her face. Her skin was pale, smudged with soot, but unharmed by direct flames. Unconscious. That was the problem.
He tried to shift the debris. It was too heavy. A large, jagged piece of concrete, reinforced with rebar, pressed down on her lower body.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the adrenaline. He couldn't move it. Not alone. He was trapped with her.
Above them, the structure groaned ominously. A fresh crack, stark and terrifying, spiderwebbed across the smoke-stained ceiling. Plaster dust drifted down like a macabre snowfall.
Looking up, Ethan's blood ran cold. The main support beam directly over their heads was groaning, bending under the immense weight. It wouldn't hold much longer. They were running out of time. Fast. He had to get her out. Now. His gaze darted around, desperate, searching for any tool, any leverage, anything at all. The air grew heavier, thick with the smell of burning wood and ozone. Another groan echoed through the chamber, louder this time, more desperate. He pressed his hand against Lyra's cheek, trying to rouse her, but she remained still, lost to the smoke.
His eyes narrowed, jaw tight. He wouldn't leave her. Not now. Not ever. He would move that beam, piece by piece if he had to. He would tear the building down with his bare hands if it meant saving her. The ceiling above them began to crack further, a chilling symphony of destruction. Each new fissure was a ticking clock, counting down their final moments. He had to think, had to act. There was no time for hesitation, no room for despair. He just had to get her out.
He braced himself, hands already searching for a purchase on the massive concrete slab, a desperate plan forming in his smoke-addled mind. He would lift it. He would lift it or die trying.