Hyena coughed, the wet, choking sound sharp in the darkness as we hit the ground.
I heard and felt the crack of bones beneath me as we landed. His thin frame had folded under the weight of the tackle. What's more is that I could see the air leaving his lungs in a sharp and desperate wheeze.
He tried to scramble away, clawing at the wet concrete, fingernails scraping against the stone, eyes wide, wild, panic pouring off him in waves.
I stood.
And I let him see me.
The mask Camille had made reflected in his wide eyes, the dark, cold shape of it twisting in the flickering tunnel lights, the shadows catching on the sharp edges like a promise.
"You're not going anywhere," I said, my voice low, distorted by the mask, resonating in the hollow of the tunnel.
Hyena whimpered, stumbling to his feet, holding his side where the tackle had hit hardest, blood mixing with the water at his feet.
Then, he screamed.
