Chapter Seven

Min was no fool. Admittedly, he was prone to making foolish decisions (as his last actions could attest to), but it was more a result of his spontaneous nature and innate optimism—despite the reality of the world, or rather, because of it—than actual foolishness. He could have teleported before the neighbours jumped him as marks were a known quantity to the general public, but, because there was no official regulating body, users like him had some sort of personal code they followed. More often than not, that included not harming normal people unless warranted (and even that could send you down a slippery slope of excuses and egomania) and overt use of your ability.

In Min's case, his power was finicky enough that teleporting while piled on could result in some potentially deliberating injuries for everyone involved. After all, no user was immune to the effects of their mark's ability; the skilled ones simply found ways of either circumventing or tolerating them. 

However, seeing as the neighbours (driven by a fervour for their misguided justice) seemed deaf to reason, he felt his actions were justified—though there was no easing the guilt should any of them be harmed due to said actions, along with the cocktail of turbulent emotions already clouding his tired mind. 

Setting aside the basic human impulse to run away from your problems, there were many reasons why being arrested wasn't a good option for him. Not only would he be wasting time behind bars—valuable time better spent locating someone who could deal with Death's mark on him—but with Kush dead (and wasn't that still a hard knot to swallow) there was no one he could call on short notice to bail him out. 

But, as things were wont to be, it was easier said than done, especially when you were blind, tired, and injured. Still, it must be done, so he pushed aside his body's complaints and forced himself to shoulder on immediately. 

Resting in Kush's apartment for the night was a possibility that crossed his mind but, on second thought, was out of the equation. Because of the sheer scale of the event that occurred, of the likely numerous deaths, the police would no doubt comb the entire building. Residents would be profiled, apartments checked, and if he remained, he would be quickly outed as a visitor. And with Kush dead, there would be no one to vouch for him. Jail would be the least of his worries. 

But the hallways were bound to be crawling now, if not with law enforcement, then with curious residents (or at least, curious eyes). He couldn't just walk to his only viable means of escape, but surely, there had to be another way. This could not be the end of the road for him. It couldn't. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—

It was as if a switch had been flipped. One moment he was merely pacing, deep in thought, and the next, he started shaking uncontrollably, his fingers scratching sharply at his thighs. His breathing became hard as if someone—most likely Kush as revenge from the afterlife—was clutching at his throat, stopping him from taking full breaths. 

But he couldn't—wouldn't—afford to lose control. Maybe when he was out of danger (relatively speaking), he could allow himself to spiral and grief, but not now. Now, he had to be calm. Rational. His biggest asset to escape was no longer his marks, but his mind and ability to think himself out of every problem he found himself in—his marks would simply supplement them. Yes, things had progressed from bad to worse in the blink of an eye, but he was certain he could still survive this. He was nothing if not a survivor. 

Through sheer force of will, Min took long, slow, and deep breaths, and as his thoughts slowed, he stopped pacing in place, hands coming to a rest on either side of his waist. He needed to get to the roof and while there, he could hide out for however long it took for the police to conduct their business. Then, depending on whether he was caught or they had gone, he could teleport back to Kush's apartment and make his way out of the building. Sure, there was a possibility that news of his ability to teleport would reach law enforcement's ears—after all, he had stupidly divulged his status as an MU when he and Kush were walking downstairs—and they could have contingencies in place in case I returned, but he would cross that bridge when he reached it.

And besides, he wasn't planning on staying long there. The guilt would make him do something stupid or thoroughly deserved, depending on who you asked. But he was digressing. 

The window was the best option available to him now, but climbing without mapping out a route first was not advised. You needed to spot suitable holds and work out how to link them together into a sequence in order to be able to climb the whole route—which he couldn't do, so he would have to improvise. 

How, though?

As his mind pondered over that question, he carefully tracked his way to the apartment's rather large window—going by Kush's succinctly worded description of it. It was already unlatched, letting the glare of the sun wash over him (along with the dry air), so it wasn't a struggle to push it further up, enough to pull half his body out. The lack of a roof access ladder was a different worry as the tell-tale sounds of sirens echoed in his ears. He was running out of time. 

Fuck!

He didn't have any climbing equipment to create safe holds and couldn't rig one up on short notice—not that he could even do such without extensive help—so the only thing he could depend on was his marks. He had not placed any on the roof or on the pipes and window ledges, but could he do the latter as he climbed as a fail-safe in case he fell? Could he try to munchkin his marks? After all, if conventional methods like stairs, elevators, or access points were not available, it only made sense for him to try out the unconventional. 

It would mean a high chance of being spotted, effectively destroying his previous plan of waiting out law enforcement, and he didn't even know if it would work, but he had to at least try. He couldn't just do nothing. So, with that in mind, Lee groped around the apartment until he had collected two objects of varying sizes (although all were small), before placing his mark on all of them. With his limit being five, he released his hold over the mark in the passageway, bringing his mental tally down to three. 

Still, his head throbbed like a bitch from the power overuse. A pity he didn't have any painkillers on hand; they didn't stop the headache—nothing could since it was intrinsically tied to the usage of marks—but they helped dull the sensation for a bit, allowing him to go all out if needed. 

He didn't think this situation called for such yet, and more importantly, he was tired as fuck. It was a miracle he wasn't bleeding from his nose with how much he had pushed himself in this short timeframe. One that he was thankful for, however, as he shuffled back to the window. There, he took another deep breath and let it out slowly, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to do. 

"Okay, Lee, you can do this… you can do this."

Common sense dictated he shouldn't do it—surely, going to jail was preferable to becoming a red stain on the concrete pathway far below—but he was never the brightest. Besides, he couldn't deny there was a certain thrill to doing dangerous shit. 

Another inhale, and he raised one of the objects out of the window, his fingers feeling the worn yet warm edges of the discarded vape pen. Then, he twisted clockwise to face up, flinging them underhandedly and smoothly, his hand and forearm pushing with a subtle crack through the air. 

Kush's apartment was the twenty-fifth one on the second floor. This building only had about six floors, so it would take considerable effort to throw an object that high up—which was why he wasn't planning to. He just needed the vape high enough especially since it was downright impossible to know when gravity seized hold of it and it began its descent. 

Banking on his intuition and luck would never get old it seemed. 

Resisting the urge to sigh, he tugged at the strand leading to the mark on the vape pen, appearing mid-air with his hand closed tightly around it. There was a brief moment of weightlessness, a heart-stopping moment really, when he was caught off-guard by the unfamiliarity of the situation—giving him a sense of vulnerability that was certainly unwelcomed—and he found himself second-guessing his decision. 

Why had he thought he could do this? How did he even get up here in the first place? 

However, that swirling mix of confusion, questions, and doubt immediately faded away as he turned his attention to the sensation of the air around. Its icy-cold embrace rushed over his face—stinging his nose and cheeks—the sound an intense, horrible one, like the wail of a widowed wife. It was enough to kick his brain into overdrive, allowing him to block every extraneous information and focus on what was important. Less of time manipulation (or anything esoteric) and more of an increased reactive period that occurred during imminent danger due to combat experience. 

He had to throw the other object up quickly!

As if in direct response, his hand flew out in a sharp arc and, in at its zenith, said object—an unopened soda can, most likely Dr Pepper knowing Kush; the other half of his friend's addiction—was released. Again, because he couldn't tell just how far he had thrown the can, he had to hope he had not misjudged his timing as he teleported to it instantaneously. 

Now came the hard part. 

Min didn't know where he was, relative to the building, but he knew he was pretty high up. The can had more weight than the vape pen, so even if he wasn't over the building already, he should be close enough for it to not matter. So, letting go of the can (as it had served its purpose), he leaned back and angled his hands like a basketballer would. He didn't want to overthrow the object, but at the same time, he was banking on it being too light to bounce off the rooftop—if it made it to the rooftop in the first place, but that was neither here nor there.

Luck and intuition, people. Luck and intuition. 

The vape pen left his hand less than a second later, and the subsequent wait for a clattering sound was agonising. Even with the rushing air in his air, the beat of his heart was a drum and the slight tremor in his hands the staccato that joined the cacophony of his mind—made worse by the muted screams from the masses below. 

Oddly enough, that caused him to chuckle. There went that plan to hide out on the roof until every nosey person was gone. 

Then, sucking on an unsteady breath as he thought—wished? Hoped? Prayed? Pled?—he heard a distant clatter from somewhere above him, he gave into the familiar tugging sensation. For a moment, he believed he had misheard, but the roof planes of the rooftop were a welcome relief. Despite the aches from his wounds, both old and new, he managed to gingerly roll himself onto his back, letting out soft whimpers and groans all the while.

Still, the echoes of his pounding heart gradually subsided, and as the realisation of his success washed over him, an unexpected surge of relief bubbled up. Laughter, raw and untamed and interspersed by wheezing coughs and half-sobs, erupted from his chest. A cathartic release of the tension that had gripped him moments before. 

"Get up and run, Min. Get up."

It might have been his subconscious, his own mouth, or even Kush's disembodied voice from the afterlife, but the words had him immediately sobering up. It was right; he was wasting time by remaining here—time anyone could use to mobilise sufficient force and come looking for him. In this state, he was in no position to fight and wasn't looking forward to one either. So, even though he wanted nothing more than to continuously lay where he was, he knew that if didn't get up and escape, he probably wouldn't be able to ever. He was working on pure adrenaline, but even that had its limits before his body shut down.

Taking a second to steady his breathing, and against his better judgement with the vape pen still in hand, he moved to push himself up. As he staggered up, then twice, before eventually getting to his feet, he couldn't help but think he needed a better means of escape from future sticky situations or travelling in general. But that was food for later thought. Now, all he needed to do was find any place far enough from here and he would be golden. 

Though there was no way to truly tell, he knew there were buildings around him, so there was less chance of him dying from falling. So, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, he picked a random direction, threw the object as far as his mustered strength could allow him, and truly began his escape.