The heavy steel sound-lock door shuddered in its concrete frame as the razor blocks struck the outer skin.
WHAM.
Through the observation window, the jagged starburst fracture in the quartz pane crept outward another two inches. The Censor had abandoned the glass. It had stepped around the corner to the steel entrance door, driving its twin aluminum splicing blocks into the deadbolt housing with the rhythmic, relentless force of a pneumatic jackhammer.
Thin ribbons of lead foil and shredded weatherstripping peeled away from the door jamb, fluttering to the linoleum like metallic confetti.
“The latch is shearing,” Elena said, stepping to the side of the doorway. Her hands were empty now that her trauma shears were ruined, but her feet were set wide, ready to pivot. “It will be through that threshold in thirty seconds.”
“Thirty seconds is enough,” Julian said.
He didn’t run, and he didn’t shout. He moved with the smooth, measured economy of a veteran stock clerk setting up a display before opening hours.
When the store was crowded and the shelves were emptying, rushing only caused you to drop stock. You took your time, and you made every motion count.
