The door swung open just in time. Elliot yanked Anika inside with one hand, and I dove in after them, twisting in mid-air to slam the door shut behind me.
Click.
Locked.
The platform roared behind the glass like an untamed beast, fists banging on windows, signs waving with ink-stained fury. I raised a gloved hand and gave a dramatic wave to the crowd, complete with a finger twirl and theatrical bow.
"Adieu, my adoring critics," I murmured. "May your torches never run out of fuel."
The train lurched forward. Momentum swallowed noise. The glass throbbed with one final bang—then silence, save for the hum of escape.
We moved toward the private sleeper car, which was surprisingly spacious. Velvet-lined seats. Polished brass fixtures. A narrow corridor leading to a private washroom. The kind of luxury reserved for diplomats and ghosts.
Elliot collapsed into a seat, still panting. "I didn't think you were gonna make it."
