Like fat Prophets, Profits? Profits.

Gabe lay on the cold stone floor, breathing heavily, the adrenaline still surging through his veins. He could feel Mariam’s hand gripping his shoulder, her fingers trembling just enough to betray the calm façade she was trying to maintain. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the pounding in his chest settle as he listened to her voice.

Her laugh—tired, shaky—filled the air between them, and he smirked, his usual cocky grin creeping back into place despite the near-death experience. Yeah, well... throwing the plan to the wind seems to be our specialty, doesn’t it? His voice was rough, but still carried that signature, self-assured charm.

But when Mariam mentioned how close they'd come, Gabe’s expression shifted. He felt her grip tighten on his robe, and he let out a slow breath, the weight of what had just happened settling in. Too close? You’re damn right about that, love. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, looking over at her, his eyes scanning her face for signs of injury. She was rattled—hell, they both were—but they were alive. Barely.

Her next words hit him like a punch to the gut. *It feels personal. Someone sent us down here to die.* Gabe didn’t respond immediately, the gears in his mind turning. He had felt it too. The traps were too complex, too well-placed for a random death trap in some forgotten ruins. Someone wanted them dead, and they’d nearly succeeded.

He sat up fully, dragging a hand through his hair as he sighed. Yeah, I’ve been thinking the same thing. This wasn’t just bad luck. Someone set this up, and they knew exactly who they were sending into the lion’s den. His voice was quieter now, more serious. He hated the thought of anyone targeting them—targeting *her*—but it was becoming harder to ignore the signs.

@Mariam DeTyne