The Mouse and The Monarch

19

~MOUSE~

The dim glow of flickering overhead lights cast elongated shadows across the narrow staircase.

Ophelia's breath came in ragged gasps as she pulled herself up the concrete stairs, her fingers gripping the splintered banister.

The air was thick with the musty scent of aged wood, decay and blood.

König mirrored her determined ascent. His leather-clad boots echoed against the steps, creating an eerie rhythm that resonated through the desolate surroundings.

Upon reaching the third floor, Ophelia cautiously rounded the corner, her heart pounding in her chest like a distant war drum.

The corridor stretched before her like a desolate path into the unknown, lined with closed doors that hid secrets and potential threats.

With a quick glance down the hallway, Ophelia's eyes widened, spotting a flicker of movement at the far end.

Instinctively, she threw herself back against the cold, concrete wall, her breath catching in her throat.

Without a word, she reached out, her fingers closing around the rough fabric of König's vest.

With a firm but gentle tug, she pulled him close, their bodies colliding in an unexpected collision.

His body went rigid as he pressed into her.

Her chest pressed into his hip as she pressed her cheek to the wall.

She wasn't looking at him as she leant back around the corner.

Her eyes traced the movement of the men standing outside a door she could only assume was room ten.

"Six tangos, front entrance," she murmured, her eyes moving back to his face.

She felt a shiver down her spine as she realised he had been staring at her.

But the weight of her words seemed to snap him out of it as his gaze hardened, his eyes narrowing in acknowledgment.

His gaze bore down on Ophelia as he surveyed the bleeding wound on her side and the slight slant in her posture.

The dim light played on the contours of his eyes, casting shadows that danced across his hood.

"Can you hold your own?" he inquired, his voice a low murmur that cut through the ambient sounds of the staircase.

Ophelia met his gaze with a confident smile, despite the pain that lingered beneath the surface.

"Obviously," she retorted, her voice carrying a blend of determination and a touch of wry humour.

Her fingers tightened around the grip of his gun, the cold metal providing a stark contrast to the warmth of her bleeding side.

König nodded a subtle acknowledgment.

In the depths of his blue eyes, she thought she detected a flicker of bemusement at her words, his eyes lightening ever so slightly.

But she shoved it aside as he shot her a nod.

She nodded back as she pressed further into the wall.

The air crackled with tension as he raised his large gloved hand, his fingers extending one by one in a silent countdown.

Ophelia drew in a steadying breath, her focus narrowing on the cold metal of the gun clutched in her hands.

The weight of the weapon felt familiar, a conduit for the controlled chaos about to be unleashed.