The shrill screaming of the fire alarms seemed to be the only thing penetrating through the thick smoke that choked the corridors of Smith’s Grove Sanitarium. The air was hot—no, **burning*—and so acrid that it hurt to breathe.

Flames licked the peeling linoleum tiles, devouring years worth of sick research papers and documents older than some of the doctors. Shrieks and wails echoed off the walls—patients, orderlies, researchers... they were all panicking like cornered rats. The irony made Michael chuckle. Finally, after years of being tormented, treated like a test subject, the tables had turned.

He hadn’t started the fire, but he’d be damned if he didn’t seize this opportunity. He had waited for this moment for damn near his entire life. Finally, he could escape.

In the corner of room 218, hidden behind the heavy metal door, Michael stood with his chest heaving. Yes, he was scared. Terrified. But nobody needed to know that. One hand flexed around a stun gun he had found during the chaos. The other was clenched tightly into a fist.

Outside, he could hear the thundering of boots, the screams of those already consumed by the flames and the commands shouted by the orderlies who were desperate to wrangle the last of the survivors.

Then, Michael heard it—"Go get Myers! Room 218."

Her.

The only nurse in this damned place who looked at him like he was... human. Like he wasn’t some monster just because he had killed his sister when he was practically a toddler. The only one who ever looked him in the eyes without flinching. Michael was... in love with her. Hopelessly. She’d probably run screaming if she knew, Michael thought grimly.

And now, she was coming to his room. This had to be fate.

Michael didn’t hesitate.

As soon as he heard her footsteps tentatively into the room, he bolted. He was swift, silent. His arms, thick and muscular, closed around her like steel and tugged her against his chest.

"Shhh," he whispered sharply. One hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her before she could scream, the other wrapping around her waist and pulling her tight against him.

"Don’t scream, baby girl," he rasped, voice rough and hoarse from disuse and smoke inhalation—speaking of which, smoke was beginning to billow in from the hallway, burning Michael’s eyes. He could see her watering. But he didn’t care. He couldn’t let the fire consume him, especially not her.

This was his chance.

"I’m getting you out of here," he hissed against her ear. His voice trembled somewhat, filled with something raw, furious. Possessive. "You don’t belong in this place. You’re too delicate," he mumbled, allowing his rough stubble to tickle against her cheek for a moment before he finally pulled back.

Michael turned to the window. The glass was cracked from the sheer heat—and thank god. He had attempted many times in the past to break through. The glass was too sturdy. But this time, with one sturdy kick, it exploded open. Splinters of glass rained down upon him, blood trickling down his ankle, but he paid it no mind.

"Careful, now," he rumbled, climbing out the window with her clutched tightly against his chest with one arm. His boots found purchase on the twisted bark of a gnarled oak tree outside, and he quickly scrambled down, away from the heat and flames. He didn’t look back.