A piece loosened. Aisha exhaled as if she had been holding her breath for hours. Her legs nearly buckled beneath her, but she forced herself upright.
Mason, just a little more, she begged, her voice trembling yet strong. The timer hit one minute fifty-eight seconds.
Malik's body trembled violently now. His breaths became sharp, tiny gasps that sounded like someone drowning on dry land.
Sis, he whispered, his voice thin as drifting smoke. I am scared. Aisha leaned as close to him as her tied arms allowed, pressing her forehead against his.
I am right here, she whispered, trying to hold herself together just a little longer. Mason clenched his jaw so tightly that the muscles along his face stood out.
He twisted again, the rope digging deeper into raw skin. His vision blurred with pain, but he kept his eyes locked on Aisha.
I told you, he whispered firm, even in weakness. I am not letting them die. He gathered the last of his strength and yanked his hands forward.
The rope bit into him one last time, then began to give. He pulled again, a violent motion that made his entire body jolt.
A sharp snap cracked through the room. The rope split completely. Both wrists dropped to the ground with a dull thud.
Blood dripped from them onto the floor in steady beats. But Mason did not look at the wounds. He looked only at Aisha.
The timer jumped to one minute thirty-nine seconds. He was free.
The moment he slipped free of the rope, Mason pushed himself upright with a force that seemed impossible for someone drenched in blood and beaten until his body felt like it no longer belonged to him.
His vision blurred for an instant, dark spots flickering at the edges like tiny shadows trying to swallow the last bit of his focus. He staggered for half a second to regain balance.
The cold floor scraping against his knees as he dropped beside Aisha. On the ground near her lay a shard of metal that had fallen from the ceiling.
Its surface dull under the flickering light, yet sharp enough to catch a faint reflection of the chaos around them. The air in the room was heavy with the metallic smell of blood, sweat and the distinct chemical tang from the bomb's exposed wiring.
Mason grabbed the shard without hesitation, every movement driven by survival rather than strength. He pulled Aisha closer and pressed the shard against her restraints.
The thick rope resisted at first, fibers biting into the metal, but under Mason's determined pressure, it thinned, frayed, and snapped strand by strand.
Aisha held her breath as the final fibers gave way. Her eyes fixed on the glowing red countdown of the bomb timer in the corner of the room.
The digits pulsed like a living thing, each flicker mirroring the pounding in her chest, and the light reflected off the pool of blood on Mason's shoulder like a cruel reminder that the second still belonged to the bomb, not to them.
Hold Malik tight, Mason said quickly, his voice low and strained, shaped by both urgency and the pain he did not have time to acknowledge.
We run now. The rope broke and Aisha lunged toward Malik, her arms shaking from exhaustion, yet guided by instinct as she wrapped them around her brother.
Malik was nearly unconscious, his head resting limply on her shoulder. His breath so faint she had to press her cheek against his hair to feel the tiny rise and fall.
A wave of fear hit her cold and sharp because he felt weightless in her arms, like a memory slipping away. Malik, look at me, she whispered, her voice cracking with more emotion than strength.
Tears blurred her vision, making the dim room shimmer like a place half real. We are getting out of here. Stay with me.
Mason bent down to check Malik's restraints, though his hands trembled slightly from blood loss and shock. His movement stayed precise, shaped by habit and desperation.
He lifted the metal shard again and sliced through each loop, digging into the boy's wrists. The scraping sound echoed faintly, swallowed almost immediately by the rising tension in the air.
When the ropes slid off, Aisha held Malik tighter. Her sob catching because she knew he was hurting. But at least he was free.
A sharp sound broke from the timer, cutting through the moment. The beeps grew longer, faster, sharper, each one hitting her like a countdown carved directly into her nerves.
The bomb had entered its detonation phase. The abandoned house trembled, dust drifting from the ceiling in steady waves like gray snow shaken loose by the heartbeat of the bomb.
Mason glanced at the device, then at the siblings, his eyes though exhausted were steady, focused and held a resolve carved from something deeper than fear.
Go. He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the burning in his muscles, and ran to the heavy iron door leading to the hallway.
The door was thick with rust. Its surface cracked and eaten away by time. Each jagged line turning its edges into saw-like ridges that caught the dim light.
Mason grabbed the handle and yanked. The door jerked a few inches, metal grinding painfully, then froze in place. The hinge screeched like a dying ventilator, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls and vibrating through Aisha's bones.
She lifted Malik again, her body screaming in protest, and forced herself forward. Her legs were numb from kneeling too long, burning with pain every time she moved, but fear propelled her.
The beeps behind them quickened, no longer individual sounds, but a rhythm that felt like the footsteps of something inescapable. Each one seemed closer, as if death itself was matching their pace.
The door is stuck, she cried, her voice trembling but urgent. Mason looked at the corroded hinge, then stepped back, his breath fogged in the cold air, giving him the strange appearance of a fighter standing in winter smoke.
Move! Aisha pressed Malik into the corner, shielding his head with her hand, her own body forming a trembling barrier between him and everything else.