NATHAN JANG
The smells of gasoline and scorched metal mixed with the coppery tang of the blood filling my mouth. More pain—white-hot and searing—speared through my ribs. My vision swam, darkness flickering at the edges.
Voices cut through the haze.
"—holy shit, that's a Maybach—"
"Call 911! Jesus, call someone—"
The gloved hand tightened on my shoulder. Pain flared, and I felt my skin go clammy. My breathing felt shaky, too.
A second figure leaned in. He pressed a finger to my neck, obviously checking for a pulse.
"Still alive," he muttered.
The wreckage groaned as the door was wrenched open. Hands grabbed me, pulling. Fresh agony tore through me as bystanders dragged my body onto the asphalt.
"Is he breathing?"
"Barely. Look at his chest—Christ, that's bone—"
