THE BINDING SPELL

The cold night air did little to soothe the inferno of terror raging within Clara. Liam, leaning heavily against her, his temple bleeding sluggishly, gritted his teeth through the pain. The screams from the convention center, the distant wail of sirens, and the sudden, chilling pronouncement of "Police!" still echoed in their ears. They weren't just on the run; they were fugitives in the chaos they had unleashed.

They stumbled through a maze of back alleys, their lungs burning, Liam's movements growing increasingly sluggish. His head wound, though not deep, was clearly disorienting him. He swayed, his eyes momentarily glazing over, and Clara had to practically drag him into the dubious shelter of a dimly lit, abandoned loading dock. The stench of stale garbage and damp concrete filled the air. It was a miserable refuge, but it was out of sight. For now.

A discarded newspaper, blown by the wind, plastered itself against a rusted barrel. The front page screamed: "PUBLISHING TYCOON IMPLICATED IN ARSON SCANDAL!" Beneath it, a grainy screenshot of the very video they had played. The internet, Clara knew, would be ablaze. Thorne's empire would be reeling.

But even as the world woke to their truth, Thorne fought back. A small, flickering television in a nearby diner, visible through a grimy window, showed a live press conference. Marcus Thorne, impeccably dressed, his face a mask of furious indignation, denounced the "malicious, unsubstantiated fabrications by disgruntled former associates." He vowed to sue "those responsible" into oblivion and ensure "justice for such a heinous smear campaign." The sheer audacity of his performance was terrifying, a testament to his power to manipulate perception.

As Thorne spoke, a discreet ticker tape scrolled beneath him: "Sources confirm campus security alert at [Eliza's University Name]. Parents advised to collect students immediately due to unspecified 'threat'."

Clara felt a cold, paralyzing dread. Eliza. He was coming for Eliza. The threat was no longer implied; it was immediate, direct, and terrifyingly real. Liam, seeing her face, saw the ticker tape too. His eyes, though still clouded by pain, sharpened with desperate resolve.

"We need to get to her," he rasped, trying to push himself upright, his legs unsteady beneath him.

The knowledge that Eliza was in danger, that their expose had put her squarely in Thorne's crosshairs, was a new, unbearable weight. They couldn't go home. They couldn't use their phones. They had no car, no money beyond what was in Liam's wallet, and Thorne's network would be actively hunting them, not just for the evidence, but now, for revenge.

They heard the distant wail of sirens, not heading towards the convention center now, but seemingly patrolling the perimeter of the industrial district. Thorne wasn't taking chances. He was locking down the city.

Clara helped Liam to his feet, her gaze sweeping the grim surroundings. Every exit felt watched. Every shadow held a potential threat. They were trapped, exposed, and vulnerable, the price of their truth demanding a payment they might not be able to afford. The "binding spell," once their sanctuary, was now a target, etched onto every wanted poster that would soon be plastered across the city. Their narrative had become a desperate fight for survival, and the next page promised only blood and uncertainty.