14:20, West of the city, Karam Residential Area.
Thick blood trickled down along the pant leg, blooming into a dark flower on the gray concrete ground.
Little Masoud leaned against the cold stairwell wall, his rapid breathing echoing faintly in the empty hallway.
He glanced down at his right leg.
The cut made by broken glass wasn't deep, but it was in a tricky spot, right above the knee joint.
Every muscle twitch tore at the coagulating scab, fresh blood gushed out again, soaking through the khaki military pants, forming an ever-expanding dark stain.
The pain was sharp and persistent, but more unsettling than the physical agony was the gradually approaching footsteps.
Clip, clop, clip.
The sound of military boots striking the cement stairs was rhythmic and dense, like the ticking of a countdown clock.
At least six people, maybe eight, advancing from the third floor, searching floor by floor.
The Security Bureau's action team—Rashid's Hounds.
