She can’t keep up — he’s amazing, like a gazelle, his long legs easily outdistancing her. Everything hurts, bare feet slapping against the pavement, breath rasping in and out of her chest audibly, limbs increasingly heavy. She can’t feel the hunter anymore — but she can feel everyone else, a cacophony in her skull that makes her clamp her hands futilely over her ears.
And then there’s a rock, or a curb, a stick, something — she trips over it and hits the ground heavily.
Stiles knows he should really slow down, his lanky body giving him advantage in his awkward, but quick, running. The only thing that was convincing Stiles to know that she was still there with him was the heavy breathing that came out of her mouth and the slap of her feet that wasn’t in sync to his. And then he hears a crashing, to which Stiles skids to a stop, scrambling after her.
“Shit, shit, shit, are you okay!?”
If everything hurt before, it all hurts even more now. There’s a new hole in her already ragged jeans, and her palms are skinned now. Just finding the energy to move is hard; she’s so tired. She manages to force her eyes open, tears seeping from under the lashes, and look at the stranger teen, but darkness is wavering at the edges of her vision.
She starts to shake her head, starts to lift her palms and show him, and the blackness overwhelms her.