The factory’s dim halls swallowed their steps, a maze of steam and shadow. Elias and Thomas moved swift, the bombs set, timers ticking—a pulse of doom or deliverance. Each breath burned, the weight of their deed a stone in Elias’s chest. This was their endgame—success or silence.

  His hands shook, fingers tracing the chisel’s scars as he checked the st fuse. Time stretched thin, each tick a sh against his nerves. The engines loomed, their roar a taunt he’d choke or be crushed by—iron gods they’d dared to fell. Thomas worked beside, face set, a rock amidst the storm—could he bear what Elias scarce could?

  “We’re close,” Thomas muttered, eyes on the flickering spark. “Hold steady.”

  Elias nodded, throat dry, his father’s curse a low hum in his skull—not words, but a fire that drove him still. The d’s hammer fshed in his mind—dropped, cold—its weight a spur to this desperate cast. They’d lit the fme; would it burn them too?

  The timers clicked, relentless, a countdown to ruin or rise. Elias’s gaze locked on the numbers—red, stark—each drop a cut to his hope. The air thickened, steam curling like a shroud, the engines’ growl a beast waking to their slight. Could this frail thread snap the chains they’d borne?

  Thomas gripped his arm, sharp and sure. “Out—now.” They turned, boots soft against the din, fleeing the heart they’d staked. Elias felt the factory’s pulse at his back, a beast they’d roused—Thomas beside him, a bond forged in this mad leap.

  They burst into the night, cold biting deep, the timers’ echo a ghost in their ears. The bst loomed—sure or lost, it’d mark them. Elias clutched the chisel, its edge a vow—not of craft, but of the men he’d stood with, the blood they’d shed. Whatever came—fire or fall—they’d struck, for the crushed, for the spark that might yet bze.