We're shown to a cramped bunkroom in the back, its walls chipped, bed frames rickety. The smell of dust and old sweat hangs in the air. Zach and Marta remain outside, presumably negotiating flight repairs or extra supplies.
Elena perches on a bunk, shoulders slumped. "Every step is a deeper pit," she murmurs, voice quivering. "But if we can just get across the border, maybe we can vanish."
I crouch beside her, taking her hand. The lamplight flickers over her tired eyes, a reminder of how far we've fallen. "We'll make it," I say, despite the tremor in my chest. "Somehow."
She draws a shaky breath. "What if Vasquez or that investigator is right behind us? Even if we cross, he might track us. He's powerful."
I don't have an answer. My arms circle her gently, and she leans against me, exhaustion radiating from her. In the hallway, muffled voices rise—Ramirez barking orders, more weapons clanking. This alliance is fragile, built on money and convenience.
Night stretches long, sleep elusive. Outside, the desert wind howls like a warning. We cling to each other, aware that tomorrow could bring betrayal or salvation. We have no choice but to move forward—because there's nowhere to go back to.