Too far back.

Too slow.

I yell out another warning, still not strong, but loud enough for the Marshal with the gun to hear and glance in my direction for just a fraction of a second. Thankfully, that’s all Atlas needs. Atlas grabs the guy in the suit, locks his arm tight around the suit man’s neck, and spins so that he is now standing behind the Marshal in the suit when the shot cracks across the air.

The world stops.

No one moves.

I can’t breathe.

Then it feels as if everything speeds up. Atlas lets go of the Marshal in the suit. The man takes two staggering steps forward. His eyes go wide. The gray suit jacket flaps open. Blood blooms bright like a rose against the white of the shirt beneath and grows larger with every beat of my heart, and suddenly all of this is far too real.

The words.

The Stewards.

The Marshals.

The world hidden in plain view that I have known nothing about but which has surrounded me all along.

In my head I knew my mother had been killed, but I didn’t really understand.

I knew running after the girl could be dangerous, but the reality of the danger was just verified by that single shot.

The injured Marshal falls to his knees, then slowly pitches face-first onto the pavement. The man in sunglasses glances down at the one he shot, then points the weapon at Atlas, who no longer has a living shield. The Marshal smirks. His arm straightens as I cross the last of the distance between us and half leap, half stumble into the man’s side, sending him pitching over with me right on top of him.

“Get off!” The Marshal pushes up from the ground, and I am sent rolling to the side. My knee cracks against concrete. My elbow skids over the hard, rough ground. Pain sings down my leg and up my arm and I grit my teeth and ignore it all as I shove myself to my feet.

Something cracks and snaps beneath my shoe—the man’s sunglasses are toast.

“Watch out!”

I turn to see the Marshal I just tackled now on his knees, pointing the gun directly at me.

A scream builds in my throat as Atlas’s foot connects with the man’s hand. I flinch when the gunshot cracks like thunder and the weapon goes flying.

I could have died.

Atlas saved me.

Our eyes meet for a split second.

Then the girl screams. The sound of her voice scraping the air acts like a sharp slap of a hand against my face—snapping me out of the shock and back into the moment. The girl bucks against the driver. He has her gripped tight in his arms as he drags her toward the open back-seat door of the car.

“Here!” Atlas tosses me a thick black book. I fumble but catch it, then dart forward. I skid on the loose pages scattered over the pavement and kick the large man as hard as I can in the shin. It’s not the balanced, powerful kick Atlas used to save me, but it distracts him long enough for me to swing the book and crack it against the side of the man’s face. The Marshal yelps, and his grip loosens enough for the girl to wriggle free. She stumbles forward, and I grab her arms to help her keep her balance. Someone from above yells, “What the hell is going on down there? I’ve called the cops.”