He stumbles. Catches himself. Drags you forward.

Leon doesn’t look back. He keeps pulling you, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the glare of a flickering streetlamp. His steps are uneven, his shoulders hitching with every breath.

Then he spots it. A warehouse, its corrugated steel door half-buckled and rusted. He veers toward it, dragging you with him.

The door groans on its tracks. Leon slams his shoulder into it — once, twice — and it screeches open just wide enough for you both to slip through.

Leon moves ahead, his flashlight beam cutting through the dark. He checks a stack of pallets. A overturned forklift. A row of metal lockers. His movements are jerky, uncoordinated — his body fighting him every step of the way.

Finally, he stops. Leans against a concrete pillar. His flashlight clatters to the floor, the beam rolling in a lazy arc before settling on a pile of burlap sacks.