Bijan sprinted across the open field, his legs pumping furiously as the house loomed closer with every step. The sun was setting behind him, casting long shadows over the golden grass that rippled in the evening breeze. Only fifty yards stood between him and safety, yet it felt like a mile, his breath ragged and heart hammering in his chest. Every nerve in his body screamed to keep moving, to not look back, to make it to the house before whatever was chasing him caught up. The old wooden porch with its peeling paint and the flicker of warm light through the window beckoned like a beacon, promising refuge, warmth, and maybe even salvation. He pushed harder, feeling the burn in his thighs, the sting of sweat dripping into his eyes, but still he ran. The world seemed to narrow down to the space between himself and the porch steps, every other sound muffled except for the pounding of his feet and the thud of his own heartbeat. Behind him, the distant but growing noise of pursuit—heavy breathing, snapping twigs, the crack of branches breaking under weight—spurred him on. His mind flashed through everything that had brought him to this desperate moment: the warnings ignored, the warnings dismissed, the choices made in haste. He didn’t dare glance back now. The house was nearly there, the screen door rattling slightly in the evening wind as if urging him to hurry. Fifty yards. Just fifty more yards to safety. One more burst of speed, one more push past exhaustion, and he’d be inside. Bijan’s hands stretched out instinctively, ready to grab the door handle, to slam the door shut behind him, to lock it tight against whatever nightmare followed him across the field. As he closed the gap, a fresh wave of adrenaline surged through him, dulling the pain in his muscles and clearing his mind for the final steps. He could feel the warmth of the porch light against his face now, the faint scent of wood smoke and home drifting out to meet him. Fifty yards. Forty. Thirty. The pounding steps behind him grew louder, closer, a sinister echo of his own desperation. He wasn’t sure if he was faster or if he just hoped he was. His lungs burned with every ragged inhale, but he forced himself to take one more breath and sprint even harder. Twenty yards. The wooden boards beneath his feet felt uneven, the porch steps looming like a gateway to a different world — a world where he could finally breathe freely. Fifteen yards now. The door was within reach, and with it, the promise of safety. The noises behind him grew more frantic, more savage, but Bijan didn’t dare stop. He felt the rough texture of the door handle beneath his fingertips, cold metal slick with sweat. He yanked it down, the door swinging open with a creak that seemed louder than thunder in his ears. He stumbled inside, barely catching himself on the doorframe as he slammed it shut, the lock clicking home with a satisfying finality. Inside, the quiet was almost overwhelming, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Bijan leaned against the door, chest heaving, sweat soaking through his shirt. For a moment, all he could do was listen — listen to his own breath, the distant sounds of the night, and the slow retreat of the threat outside. He was safe. At least for now.
Bijan 50 YARDS TO THE HOUSE!!
