We reached the heavy fire door of the stairwell, and Andrew pushed it open.

The air inside the concrete shaft was cooler, though thin tendrils of smoke drifted up.

He guided me down the stairs, step by step, his arm wrapped tightly around my ribs.

We reached the basement level, which led to his private garage.

He unlocked his black sedan with his key fob, and the headlights flashed in the dark.

He helped me into the passenger seat and shut the door quickly.

He ran around to the driver’s side, climbed in, and started the engine.

The car roared to life, and the air conditioning blasted cool air into my face.

I leaned my head back against the leather seat, closing my eyes.

“Drink this,” Andrew said, handing me a bottle of water from the center console.

I took a slow sip, the cool liquid soothing my raw throat.

“What were you doing in there, Elila?” he asked, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

His knuckles were white, and blood dripped from a cut on his right forearm.