NICK
Twenty minutes before I found myself staring down the barrel of Cassian's flat, lifeless glare, I was being shoved through a sea of sweaty teenagers by a man who thought ducking behind plastic trash cans was a valid survival strategy.
Cyan had my wrist locked in a grip that was entirely too strong for someone whose diet consisted mostly of iced coffee and spite.
Every time the crowd parted, he'd yank me two steps to the left, ducking his head so low his dark fringe practically swept the beer-stained concrete.
I stopped walking. I didn't slow down or ease into a halt. I just anchored my boots to the floor and let him hit the end of his leash.
Cyan bounced back against my chest with a soft puff of air, his dark eyes wide and frantic behind his crooked glasses. "What are you doing? Keep moving!"
"I am not doing this," I said, keeping my voice flat.
"Doing what?"
