Paul swore loudly, his grip tightening until I felt my bones groan under the pressure.

“Drop it!” he yelled, shaking my arm violently.

“Drop the gun, you bitch!”

The metal of the revolver slipped against my sweaty palm.

I tried to pull the trigger then, blind with panic, but my finger slipped off.

The gun clicked loudly in the dark, a dry, empty sound.

My heart stopped.

Had Vincent given me an empty weapon?

Or was the safety on?

Paul noticed the click and smirked, his eyes gleefully malicious.

“Stupid girl,” he sneered.

“You don’t even know how to use it.”

He raised his other hand, forming a heavy fist.

I closed my eyes, bracing for the impact I knew was coming.

I waited for the familiar, sickening crack of his knuckles against my cheek.

I waited for the darkness to take me over again.

But the blow never came.

Instead, a sudden, sharp splash echoed from the main tunnel.

It was a heavy, deliberate sound, completely different from our chaotic struggle.

Then came the unmistakable sound of a leather-gloved hand striking metal.