She ducks under the police tape. The air tastes like dust and rust. Emergency lights paint the stairwell in pulses of red, and somewhere above her, a child coughs.

She climbs. Her boots find the edges of cracked steps, the parts that won't give.

When she reaches the central column on the third floor, she stops. Plants her feet. Presses her palm flat against the concrete.

The building shudders. Plaster rains down from the ceiling. Somewhere below, a pipe bursts.

Vera closes her eyes.

The groaning slows. Stops.

She calls up the stairs, voice calm and sharp as a blade: "Move. Now. Down. Don't stop."

Footsteps. A woman appears first, a toddler pressed against her shoulder, eyes wide and wet. Two teenagers stumble after her, pale-faced. An older man brings up the rear, hands shaking so badly he can barely grip the railing.

They freeze when they see her. Vera doesn't open her eyes.

"I'm not here to explain it," she says. "Go."

The woman moves first. Then the others. They rush past her, footsteps thudding down the stairs. Someone whispers thank you. Someone else is crying.

Blood starts to dribble from Vera's nose. She wipes it on her sleeve without breaking focus.

When the last footstep fades, she exhales. Lets go.

The building collapses inward with a sound like the sky splitting, and the stairwell falls away from the exit—planned, precise, empty.

She steps outside. Night air hits her face. She's dusted in gray powder, blood smeared across her cheek, too tired to feel the cold yet.

A shadow cuts across the street above her. Wind whips. A quinjet descends.

Boots hit pavement before the ramp is fully down.

"Ma'am!"

She glances back. Just once. A man in blue and white, shield on his arm, running toward her with that squared-shoulder determination she's seen on news broadcasts.

She doesn't answer. She turns and disappears into the dark between two buildings.

If they can name her, they can own her.