The air in the emergency subway vault was thick with dust and age. Every step Maxwell took echoed down the stone corridor, his boots crunching over gravel and broken glass. The light was dim—only the orange flicker of distant fires illuminating his way from the shattered entrance above.
He held the enhancer canister in his hand like a loaded weapon. The temptation to inject it now clung to his thoughts, but he knew better. It wasn't tested. The last test subject had gone into seizures. Another had screamed until his veins burst. Max had seen it.
Even in war, some things haunted more than others.
Behind him, faintly, came the clang of Elijah's boots dropping onto the metal stairwell.
"You always run to holes, don't you?" Elijah's voice was closer now. "First the lab. Then the circus. Now this?"
Max pressed himself to the wall, every inch of his body alert. He was buying time, not just for himself—but to figure out what came next. A frontal fight wasn't an option. He needed something to even the field.
He stepped deeper into the forgotten maintenance passage, his fingers brushing a rusted fuse box. He traced the panel until he found the main breaker. Dead. No power. But he could work with that.
The old subway maps etched on the wall showed a maintenance lift shaft… and below it, a pressure room used decades ago during the city's construction.
A trap, maybe.
But one only he knew.
He took the narrow stairway down, passing corroded pipes and old wiring as water dripped from cracks above.
"Are you hiding or planning?" Elijah's voice echoed through the dark. "Because if it's the former, I'll find you. And if it's the latter—well, that's almost cute."
Max knelt in the shadows, cracked his knuckles, and looked at the enhancer one more time. His thumb hovered over the cap.
"No," he whispered. "Not yet."
The pressure room's door groaned as he forced it open. Inside: cold tile, half-flooded with ankle-deep water, metal beams, and fragile piping. One well-placed blow could bring it all down.
And then he heard the sound.
Not Elijah's steps.
Breathing.
Right behind him.
Too late.
He turned—
Elijah crashed into him like a battering ram, slamming him into a pillar. Max screamed as pain shot through his spine. His fist came up instinctively, landing on Elijah's side. It felt like punching a brick wall.
"I gave you a chance," Elijah snarled. "But you're still playing the martyr. Always thinking you're the only one who suffered."
Max swung again. And again. The blows landed—barely—but Elijah didn't stop.
Blood pooled on the floor. Not all of it Maxwell's.
"You think they'll remember you?" Elijah asked, twisting his arm. "You think the people will write stories about how you saved them? They're already forgetting."
Max's eyes widened. Elijah was pressing his head underwater now.
The cold hit him like a slap.
Darkness.
He flailed.
Elbowed.
Caught Elijah under the chin—enough to break free.
He gasped as he surfaced.
He was dying. And if he didn't act soon, he wouldn't be the only one.
Maxwell reached for the enhancer.
His hand shook.
And this time—he didn't hesitate.