The quiet Racz left behind was not empty, but heavy, thick with malice. Madam Birgitta stood motionless, her gaze fixed on the shattered porcelain shards on the marble. Olesia, still clutching the coarse coat-check uniform, felt bile rise in her throat. Valdemar Racz knew. In forty-eight hours, he would crush the estate and drag her back to the altar. The only thing she knew how to do when faced with inevitable disaster was run. It was a pathological urge, a reflex ingrained deeper than instinct. She didn’t hesitate. The polished marble of the atrium felt like a judgment beneath her cheap shoes. Henrik still stood by the entry, an unmoving sentinel, his eyes locked on her. For a second, their eyes met, an urgent question flickering across his normally unreadable face. She tore her eyes away. Attachment was a luxury she couldn't afford, a weakness Racz would exploit. She had to vanish. Olesia slipped through the servants' locker room without a word to anyone, stripping out of the uniform into her worn street clothes, her rubber soles slapping down the concrete service stairwell. She remembered the frigid bite of the Vespera City air as she slipped through a rarely used loading dock entrance, the stench of brine and exhaust fumes a stark contrast to the mansion’s sterile perfection. Rain, thin and icy, plastered her dark hair to her scalp instantly. She pulled her threadbare hood tighter, her shoulders hunched against the gale. The streets were slick and gleaming, reflecting the garish neon glow of distant corporate towers. She walked with purpose, her head down, weaving through the sparse late-night pedestrian traffic, heading for the old harbor district. There, she knew, were the cash-only flophouses, the shadowed docks where one could buy passage on a freighter to almost anywhere. Anywhere far from Valdemar Racz. Anywhere far from Henrik Jasker. The memory of him—the daily spiced milk, the sudden defense against Racz—pinched her chest, but she pushed it aside. She cut down a narrow alleyway, a shortcut between two derelict warehouses. The air here was heavy with the smell of damp concrete and forgotten things. The flickering halo of a broken streetlamp barely penetrated the gloom. Halfway down, a hulking shape detached itself from the deeper shadows. Then another. And another. Three men, their faces obscured by the brims of their caps, emerged. They moved with a chilling, predatory coordination. Olesia froze, every muscle tensing as her ribs rattled against her lungs. “Lost, little bird?” one of them rasped, his voice rough, like gravel. He held something in his gloved hand – a compact, black taser. The familiar, acrid scent of ozone already tinged the air. She spun, attempting to bolt back the way she came, but another man was already there, blocking her exit. A third reached for her, his hand snaking out to grab her arm. She twisted, a desperate, animalistic cry catching in her throat as she struggled. Her foot slipped on a patch of slick refuse, and she stumbled, hitting the grimy alley wall hard. Stars exploded behind her eyes. The taser man advanced, the prongs of the device glinting menacingly. “No,” she whimpered, bracing for the inevitable shock. Her flight, her escape, had led her straight into a trap. Racz had been waiting. They had been *waiting*. Fingers clamped around her biceps like iron vice grips, dragging her towards the mouth of the alley where a dark van idled, its sliding door gaping wide. She kicked, scratched, bit, but their grip was like iron. Acid rose in her throat as she fought against the hold. Then, a thunderous roar split the night. A violent, shattering crash echoed through the alley, followed by a sickening crunch of metal and bone. One of Racz’s men, the one who’d been blocking her escape, let out a guttural scream before his body was flung into a pile of overflowing trash bins with sickening force. The dark alley was suddenly awash in the blinding, emerald-green glow of high-intensity headlamps. A vehicle, sleek and impossibly low-slung, burst through the makeshift barricade of trash cans and broken pallets, smashing them aside like twigs. It was no ordinary car. Its armor-plated chassis gleamed wetly, a low, prowling beast. It slammed to a halt inches from Olesia and her captors, its engine humming with barely restrained power. The driver’s side door, thick and reinforced, swung open with a hydraulic hiss. Henrik Jasker stood there. His tailored dark wool suit was torn at the cuff, rain plastering dark hair across his brow. His features, normally an unyielding mask, twisted with pure fury. His dark pupils were locked onto hers through the driving rain. He didn't speak. He didn’t need to. He moved like a coiled spring, stepping out of the vehicle, his gaze sweeping over the remaining goons. The man holding Olesia hesitated for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Henrik was on him. A single, brutal punch to the jaw sent the man reeling, his head snapping back with an audible crack. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he hit the wet asphalt. Henrik seized Olesia’s arm, his grip surprisingly gentle amidst the chaos, and hauled her into the heated cabin of the armored car. The plush interior was a sudden, jarring sanctuary from the freezing rain. As she stumbled inside, another goon lunged at Henrik, trying to pull him back, a glint of a knife in his hand. Henrik met him with a devastating, precise kick to the chest. The man gasped, clutching his ribs, his face a mask of agony. Before he could recover, Henrik twisted, delivering a sharp, concussive blow to the temple with his elbow. The assailant dropped like a stone. Henrik slammed the door shut, the heavy thud resonating deep in Olesia's bones. He didn’t look at the fallen men, didn’t even glance at the crumpled figure under his wheels. His focus was entirely on her. He cranked the wheel, the armored chassis surging forward over broken curbs, a jade streak vanishing down the rain-slick streets of Vespera City. The alley, with its violence and shadows, vanished behind them in seconds. Olesia shivered against the leather seat, chills racking her frame after the sudden brawl. Her teeth chattered, her whole body shaking violently. Henrik, without looking away from the road, reached over, his hand brushing her shoulder. He pulled off his own perfectly tailored, rain-dampened coat, the rich, dark fabric still radiating his body heat, and wrapped it around her. The scent of his expensive cologne, steel, and something subtly earthy, enveloped her. It was a strange comfort. His other hand, the one not on the steering wheel, moved to his pocket. He pulled out a sleek, obsidian-black phone. Olesia watched, mesmerized, as his thumb hovered over the screen. A tremor shook his fingers, causing the knuckle to jerk sideways against the glass screen. He paused, grinding his teeth in concentration as the twitch subsided. Then, with a visible effort, he managed to tap out a single sentence, the letters appearing stark white against the dark screen. He turned the phone towards her, his eyes pleading, desperate. “Don’t leave me yet.”

The Armored Getaway